3 a.m.
is when the world
goes completely quiet.
No traffic outside,
No voices in the house,
No distractions
Loud enough
To drown out memory.
It’s just me
and the soft glow of the clock
Reminding me
sleep has left again.
This is the hour
grief likes to visit.
It slips in quietly,
pulls up a chair
At the edge of the bed
and asks questions
I cannot answer.
What would you be doing today?
Would you still laugh
the same way you used to?
Would you tell me
everything will be okay?
The night
holds these questions
like secrets.
I stare at the ceiling
and imagine
What it would feel like
to hear your footsteps
down the hallway again.
To hear your voice
say my name
The way you always did.
But the house
remains still.
3 a.m.
is a strange place in grief.
It’s where memories
grow louder.
Where the past
sits beside the present
and reminds me
of everything
Love once looked like.
Sometimes I cry.
Sometimes I just lie there
holding the quiet
Like something fragile.
But even in this lonely hour
something small remains.
The love
that keeps waking me.
Because grief
is not just loss.
It is love
looking for somewhere
to go
at 3 a.m.
Grief Poetry 