midnight belongs to no one,

neither night nor day,

it blossoms quickly,

dies back,

some exotic flora

with no smell

no temperature of its own,

no method –

and we sleep throught it,

you and i

as we sleep through so many

of the hours

of our life,

but who can be as awake

as we ought to be

in love,

and  you are my midnight,

my high-noon,

my good morning;

even in all these years

of sweet marriage

i know

with sorrow

you are only passing through.

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