I have a pretty serious relationship with 4 a.m.
It was 4 a.m. when I realized that God didn’t exist and that my parents were just people. It was too much, too fast for a six-year-old. I felt like an island, floating in the sky.
I was 4 a.m. when I woke up in my dorm room sure that something was wrong. My mom called a few hours later – my dad was sick. I had to come home.
It was 4am when I realized that the only way I could get out of a toxic relationship was to leave the city I loved.
It was 4am when I decided to come back, get out of acting, go to grad school. Maybe try to write for real.
My daughter woke up at 4 a.m. every night and it was 4am when I cried because she was smiling, and I was sick from needing sleep.
It’s 4am when I run to steady my pulse.
It’s 4am when I write nonsense like this.
It’s 4am when the quiet falls like rain, and I imagine slipping through the drops.
This is about as un-sinful as a Sinful Sunday can get. While it was taken from above and not below (as per August’s prompt), for me, my face mid-insomnia is pretty damn revealing so I went with it anyway. If you’d like to see some fantastically sexy Sinful Sunday’s, click the pretty lips.