4:01am.

4:01am

Sometimes up 

after the witching hour,

awoke by a dream,

a dream of friends past

most she hasn’t seen

in years.

Ones that she trusted

or at least thought she did.

She lights a candle,

drinking tea 

from the cup her son 

painted for her.

“I love dad.”

Imprinted in its warm ceramic.

Not cracking a smile;

she traces the words 

with a finger.

Making blisters

below the pastel blue

of her nails.

And she finds herself wiping her eyes.

It was never her intention 

to hurt anyone.

But she did,

just the same.