It is 5 AM yet again, and I don't look how I used to.

At least you look at me just as you always have.

One glance, and I feel it all over again: 

I am Free… 

albeit in the confines of my mattress: hands in your hair, head on your chest.

It seems you want to be here with me but I also know you don’t like sleeping,

for if you did, you would let yourself do it more.

Maybe it is me. Or it could be a disorder. 

It’s equally as hard to wake you up as put you down, anyway.

insomAniacally in love with you 

is how I find myself up at 5AM yet again.

(It’s an hour I have only ever known with you)

But you stay up either way, so I don’t know:

I don’t know how many 5AMs exist in your world, entirely independent from me.

Afterall,

certain things can be one’s favourite without having a reason behind it.

So, maybe your love for me is just like that.

Maybe I am transparent and  

if we danced together one hundred miles away from the confines of this bedroom; hand on my waist, head in your neck — still, all you would see is drywall.

Nothing behind me but you love what you see.

Or maybe it is just 5AM and I really am your favourite.

But your digital clock’s display seems much more rigid than me.