Red Numbers

I came down at 2:04.

The microwave clock was all the light,

red numbers burning in the night,

against the dark.

The refrigerator hummed.

I didn't turn the overhead on.

Kept moving in the thin red glow,

the only place to go.

The windows were just black.

Not windows—just absence.

I couldn't tell what was inside

or outside, what was real.

I stood there like a trespasser

in my own kitchen, like the hour

had made it foreign, like I

didn't belong awake.

The hum got louder when I stopped.

I moved again. Opened a cabinet.

The boxes didn't creak.

The floor didn't announce me.

Nothing knew I was awake at 2,

nothing but the clock, nothing but

the hum, and I took what light

it gave me and went back up

like I'd stolen something,

like I'd broken the agreement:

that this hour was for sleeping,

and I was the only one who didn't.