Breaking Point

I wake, soaked, the sheets tangled

around my limbs like cold ropes.

Dawn’s sharp fingers claw the room,

pressed thin against cracked glass.

Breath rattles in my chest—a dry hammer

in the empty cave of my ribs.

The window’s fog fights the chill,

a thin smear of night’s last breath.

Skin prickles, chills retreating,

leaving the ache of something lost.

The fever’s flame extinguished too fast,

leaving smoke and a raw wound.

The silence waits—heavy, waiting—

till the air shivers, uncertain,

carrying the sharp taste of nothing

but the moment the fever breaks.