Quiet Hammer

In the dark, the drip—

drop, drop,

drop—

clings to the silence like a cracked pulse.

Each fall a small, sharp hammer

on the metal basin's cold skin,

a sound that splits the dark,

a slow reminder dripping down the minutes.

I count the pause between the falls,

stretch my breath to catch the next,

a lullaby for insomnia,

the kitchen clock ticks inside its shell.

The faucet doesn’t stop.

It doesn't speak,

but in the heavy stillness

it pounds against the night’s thin flesh.