It's almost half-past one,
and I am still awake, of course.
Waiting for a reason
to bed down.

If one doesn't come,
I'll stay here with that ticking sound,
and write another line,
until the sunshine comes around.

All my friends are sleeping,
and there's nothing left to do,
but I am not the sort
to follow suit.

I make myself another drink,
and put my glasses on;
Time to have another think,
about these yet unfinished songs.

Something in their frailty,
their incomplete design,
reminds me of a time that brings
so many things to mind.

And every memory has a smell,
at least as far as I can tell,
but I can't sell a piece of it
to you.

Assuming that's what I was trying to do.