After 2 a.m.

By Kelly Grace Thomas


I never leave the party at the right time

Empty handed guests in search for manners

tend to give away their secrets.

Fogged windows, empty ashtrays, corduroy couches

and the way your hair curled like a halo,

how the hazel of your confession

felt with longing fingertips pressed against the small of my back,

this is all I remember.

My two am theory is sitting on a white picket fence

shaking its head at the same mistake I keep making over and over again

I wish finding myself didn’t feel this good.

I crave poetry in the black mirror of a sky cracked open by stars. 

I am all passion and pitfalls.

Ash and apologies.

“When there’s nothing left to burn you have to set yourself on fire.”