A Writer’s Sin

In the middle of the night,
my mind writes.

It writes of dreamscapes and fantasies,
of old love and new heartaches,
of conversations that never happened,
and stories that ended differently.

It writes letters to those no longer here,
and speeches I will never give.

It rewrites past,
and drafts future.

It invents worlds,
and mourns their death.

My mind,
in the middle of the night,
does not wish to sleep.

It writes,
and unfortunately,
I am forced to read.