Late

The sun is too far across the rug.

The red numbers on the box

are a steady, glowing 9:15.

No more chirping. Just the heat

of a room that stayed quiet

while the world moved on without me.

Three missed calls.

The station is thirty miles out.

I can see him on the bench,

shoulders hunched against the damp,

watching the tracks go empty

because I couldn't pull myself

out of the grey safety of the sheets.