the small hours

in the end
thats what you remember.
the small hours.
you remember
sitting alone
staring into a pitch dark
unwilling to swallow you.
not comradely.but unthreatening.
a happy accident of time.
like you.
the fellow traveller
who gets off at the bend
where red and orange shades
emerge.

lost by day, 
this self
seeks the comfort
of dark mountains
on sleepless nights
to spill over defined edges
become indistinguishable
and be whole again.