Nocturne

Two hours after midnight—

in these canonical hours of Matins
when the faithful sing their quiet songs
and say their silent prayers;

when our protectors keep watch
over those who are asleep and dreaming
or merely wondering what is to be
when the dawn finally breaks;

when the night is at its darkest
and the morning at its coldest;

I sit here, under this electric star—

puzzling over why music must be written
in keys that are inappropriate for guitars;

wishing for my fingers to be
as dextrous and strong as my toes;

waiting for the light to shine on the horizon
to paint the sky with all the colours that
only you can imagine.

Come back.
Come home.