It was dark just reaching

It was dark, just reaching

for the glass. Missed.

Water spreading cold

across the paperback, sopping

the corner of the page

where I'd folded it down.

The phone, still charging, cast

a blue-white glow on the mess.

Receipts, curled and illegible now,

a half-used chapstick, a prescription bottle

tipped on its side, numbers smeared.

Everything I need right here,

or thought I did. A damp index

of small, late-night worries.

It just sits, accumulating,

the quiet record of a life

that doesn't always manage to stay

inside the lines.