At 2 AM I knocked the water glass

At 2 AM I knocked the water glass

from the table in the dark

and watched it roll across the floor—

no shatter, just the spread

of something that wanted to escape,

wanted to break the boundary

between the bed and the table,

between reaching and missing.

When I found it, I saw clearly

what sits on that table at night:

the book spine-down with warped pages,

the charger coiled tight,

a glass with ancient residue,

the pen without its cap,

ink probably lost.

This is my inventory,

my nightly geography,

the objects my hands reach for

in the dark.

Not people.

Not anything that breathes.

Just things

that have absorbed the shape

of my reaching,

that know me

in this space.

I dried the fallen glass

and put it back

exactly where it would fall again,

exactly where it would fail me

the same way tomorrow.

Some things you don't rearrange

even when they've failed you,

especially then.

They've earned the right

to sit here broken,

to know you,

to teach you

that reaching and missing

are the same thing

when you're trying not to see,

when you're trying to believe

that what you keep nearby

keeps you,

that objects

can be reliable

in ways people

never learn to be.