Her laptop is opened,
The glowing screen waiting for words.
And a steaming cup of hot cocoa,
Is sitting on a random book.
Her hair is glossy in the street lamps,
That shine through the opened curtains.
And her eyes glitter like lost gems.
The clock on the bedside table,
Says in blinking green neon numbers:
Her only companion is a slinky grey tabby cat,
Who perches beside her on the seat,
Looking out at the moon.
As if struck by lightning,
Flashing over the distant hills,
She sits straight up.
Her fingers dance across the keys,
In rhythm to the raindrops.
As a story dances through her brain,
A smile creeps across her face.
2:00 am is the hour of writers,
And she is all of those.