2 AM hunger

The fridge hums a tired tune,

a cracked mug catches half-light

and pools of water drip slow,

caught somewhere between cold and quiet.

I reach for a glass, fingers sticky

from the night’s residue,

and the window paints me

as a shadow, rubbed thin,

unshaven, blinking against the dark.

This kitchen breathes heavy,

full of half-empty bottles

and glass shards of silence

that crack under my skin.

Outside, the world sleeps,

but here, hunger's a sharp tap

on cracked tile.

I drink, swallow the silence,

and wait for dawn to bleed.