Two AM Counter

The hum of the fridge, a low, steady drone,

only sound now, the world gone home.

I walked in for water, just stumbled out of bed,

and saw the counter, the things unsaid.

Half a bag of chips, twisted shut,

a coffee cup, dried rings, a silent 'but'.

The faucet dripped, a quiet tick,

like the house holding its breath, quick.

Streetlight through blinds, a pale, striped gleam,

made shadows stretch, a waking dream.

Everything waiting, poised and still,

for morning's noise, to break the chill.

Just me, the water, and the quiet weight

of things left out, too late.