Only at four in the morning, when the roar of the city life comes to a dull whistle, does the mind begin to wander.

It wanders to places longed to be forgotten and stirs emotions too raw to reason with.

He lays still, not in his bed or across the sofa, but on the floor, askew and uncomfortable. All too familiar with the fine details about the texture of his carpet. He lays and accepts his self-granted punishment; atoning for the thoughts that plague his mind at four in the morning.

It’s atonement because he was wrong. He did wrong and he knows but it’s too late now because choices were made by him, for him and about him.

As his mind wanders, loneliness seeps into his skin and makes itself welcome. Regret fills the lungs and builds a tomb in his chest; it’s difficult to breathe and he chokes up a sob. And again. The process is terminal.

Always at four in the morning does the visage of his once lover haunt his sight. Praying on the weakness of inactivity and insomnia that runs his mind.

--TBC--