The notification came at 1:53. It's her birthday, wish her well. She's been dead since October.
I know the man upstairs only by sound. Tonight there was the first shoe, and then nothing came after it.
She asked if we were okay back in March. I read it by the kettle and decided I'd answer when I had the words.
I went looking for a receipt and a whole year fell open. There you are, June, squinting at the sun.
It's 2am and the goodnight is still in the box. We've been talking a week and I don't want to send it first.
I tried to remember what I did last Tuesday and couldn't. The whole week folded into one beige afternoon, and I started counting backward.
I've lived in this apartment four years, but at two in the morning it still feels borrowed, like somewhere I'm only staying.
My mom called twice today and I let it ring both times. There's a voicemail from Tuesday I still haven't played.
The Sunday crossword is still under the fruit bowl. We stopped at fourteen across. I keep buying bananas so I never have to move the paper.
2:48, then 2:48 again. The night isn't moving the way it should, and I'm afraid to look away from the clock.
Third time since I lay down. A thin line of glow through the blinds, ninety seconds, then dark again. The gaps aren't even.
Three a.m., the stain shaped like nothing, and a room that quietly rearranges itself while I lie here not sleeping.