Ash blankets tilted the world on its side
My head spinning as I lay while I wait
By your bed as you cried
At two in the morning.

Your shouts coloured the walls
Almost as much as my pen
Ink scribbled on my palms and dolls
At three in the morning.

Your small hands throw a useless hit
Curls of brown falling over your tear stained face
Greens and dinner on the floor in a spit
Of your burst of anger at four in the morning.

My glare stays still, shining through waves of brown
Uselessly trying to persuade you
With venomous words in my dressing gown
At five in the morning

You stare from afar
Your brown hair no longer curled
As rain poured as black as tar
At six in the morning.

We sit in a deafening silence
Love tied and knotted
No help to a ruined conscience
At seven in the morning.

We crack a smile in the dark
Your dark curls mirror mine
Our love lighting a spark
Before setting a campfire
At eight in the morning.