2:17

Third night at 2 AM and I'm awake,

reaching for the same mug,

same kettle, same everything.

The microwave clock says 2:17

like it's been expecting me.

Tuesday was this. Wednesday too.

The stairs know my weight by now—

the sixth step always creaks.

I don't even think about it,

just move through the dark

to the kitchen where the light

is thin enough to see my face

in the window above the sink.

I look like someone who's done this before.

I look like someone who'll do it again.

The water heats. The tea bag blooms.

I drink it while it scalds my throat

because the pain is honest,

at least.

It proves I'm still here,

still capable of feeling

something real.

The tea cools. I stand at the sink.

By tomorrow night I'll be here again,

and I'll know exactly what time

it's going to be,

and I'll wonder how long

a person can repeat the same moment

before the moment starts repeating

them.