At Three O'Clock

At three o'clock, on every afternoon,
I think of her, and also every night
As I stare at her pillows, as moonlight
Shines harshly through the window, as the moon
Whispers her name. I'm in a soft cocoon,
Trapped in the memory of something bright.
I try to move; my interrupted flight
Proves nothing but that I've been love's buffoon.

I told her that I loved her, every day.
Sometimes I even said, at three o'clock,
"I'm always yours." She said, "You are my rock."
I now no longer have such things to say,
I've put my feelings and my fears away.
The port is gone where my heart used to dock.