The Quiet Hour

The clock ticks soft in the quiet hour,
when the world is asleep and I've no one to call.
The city hums beneath its iron tower,
and I am small — yet standing tall.

Loneliness knocks, but I don't let it in;
I've learned the echo of my own skin.
These empty rooms have taught me this:
to be alone is not to be amiss.

I brew my tea, I dim the light,
I make my peace with the falling night.
For in the silence, soft and deep,
I find the dreams I mean to keep.

Alone, not lonely. 🌙