When I stir awake at 4.26 in the morning
You whisper down to me from the cracks in the concrete
Beckoning me to play with the shadows on the ceiling
I see you dart across a puddle on the pavement
You pass right after I do, illuminated by blinking lights
I try to run and leave you behind
But all these watery mirrors show not my reflection, only yours
There was a day where I came home and you were sitting there on my bed
You drew me in and on top of you, and your flesh felt like fire against my skin
But I couldn't do it
So we fell asleep with my arms around you so tight, I couldn't feel you slip away
You stopped by when I passed out on the sidewalk, having too much to drink
You lifted my chin and stroked the greasy hair off my forehead
I started vomiting violently, my throat lining burned and swelled
You were gone, and I passed out again
One night I woke up at 4.27 and there were no noises in the ceiling
I'd been sober for the past three days and the streetlights outside were dimmed
My breathing grew labourous, I panicked, and I tore at my sheets
But then you looked up from next to me with a puzzled look and asked me what was wrong
I held onto you for longer than I knew
And this time, you stayed
