Dead Weight

The kitchen hums a hollow tune

beneath the silver, plastic moon.

The fridge is white, the light is cold,

and I am feeling very old.

It jumps and rattles on the board,

unplugged from any charging cord.

I grab the glass and feel the spark,

a sudden hope against the dark.

But only updates wait for me,

a list of things I’ll never see.

A heavy, rectangular ache

for every breath I had to take.