It’s not you, it’s me. I know that’s a cliché but, in this case, it’s true. We’ve seen so much of each other recently that there are times I feel we’ve had this unspoken agreement in place forever. But it needs to end, I’m sorry.
You see, as beautiful as you are, I can’t keep up with your constant demands. For all of the sunshine you once brought into my life, your insistence that I wake several hours before your arrival is beginning to take its toll.
In the beginning it was fine, sometimes even fun. The extra hours of consciousness waiting for the rest of the country to wake were spent idly ticking thoughts over. Then you’d arrive, shortly after bringing a warm, orange sunrise and make me smile, banishing the nightmares for a few hours until the sun slipped away early again, leaving me cold and alone.
But these days your arrival is dark and foreboding.
I toss and turn in bed, try my best to ignore you, to no avail. So I sit up, and we stare at each other as you pass by again.
I’m not getting any younger. It wasn’t long ago that your greeting saw me wandering home of a night, and that was fine. But now I’m tired. I’m tired of seeing you, and I’m fed up that you bring nothing with you when you come, so do me a favour. Leave me alone. Please. I’d be much happier with 8 am. Even 6 am, at a push. But not you, 4 am. Not you.
Tired, of Chelmsford.