3am

He can’t sleep—
and although not sleeping
makes perfect sense given, 
well, 
everything—
at 3am the temptation to lie

to say it’s all okay,
to promise better tomorrows
that temptation is strong,
and my eyelids are heavy
like the truth of the world is heavy.

I want to say it’s alright.
I want to say you can sleep now,
but then I think of Rumi
and how, together with the dawn,
he whispers
don’t go back to sleep
and I remember
we all need to wake up now.

It’s time to wake up,
and my son still hasn’t slept,
so instead of promising anything,
I force my eyes wide open
and tell him
I’m awake too
and I’m listening.
Tell me all about it.