Midnight

Midnight

Watching the
silhouettes of
the bats fly
against the
milky way,
I lay on
the floor with
her hands on
my wasted body.

Mango leaves fall,
oh, its autumn.
Only the lonely
cicada breaks
the dark silence.
Why won’t
she talk, I try
to gather my
shattered thoughts,
but can’t.

The crescent moon
has set in the
pit of the west.
The stars
gaze at me,
as if I am
a burglar of their secrets.
The breeze hides
behind the
huge mass of the
mango tree.
Still, she doesn’t talk.

Don’t know why
she is cold as ice.
I think
it’s midnight,
a perfect time to
bite the dust.