gece boyu

Five in the morning is that hour when everything seems possible and simultaneously meaningless. The city hasn't woken up yet, but inside it's buzzing – not with caffeine, but with the remnants of someone else's skin on my memory. Where passion pretends to be love, and loneliness pretends to be having fun. The air is thick with the smell of insomnia, too loud for the bedroom's silence. It's simple: the body seeks oblivion, the heart seeks excuses, and the morning, as always, finds them both in the same bed with guilt and a sweet overdose.