The late nights usually surrendered to sleep
Are instead spent rolled over on our sides
Eyelids weak and the arms that hold up our heads weaker
As we run rivers of words out of our mouths.
Often more fulfilling than the hours of sleep they substitute
This connection creates a glow from our hearts despite the early morning darkness.
Sometimes blood will boil, to be followed by periods of silence and cold shoulders
But back in our beds, behind shuttered windows, we will always come to talk again.
Posted in response to the challenge Friends.
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