The Beeping Dark

It started at 3:17 AM,

beeping in the dark like something calling,

a countdown to a thing I can't condemn—

or stop. Like a metronome that's falling.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

From somewhere in the black.

I lay there trying to sleep,

but it kept calling me back.

I was out of bed at 3:23,

searching the kitchen, the bath,

the hallway, the bedroom—there—

the tiny white disc on the path

of the ceiling, barely visible,

the red light flashing each second,

the battery dying. That was it, sensible,

simple—that's what I reckoned.

I changed it at 3:41.

The beeping stopped.

But the silence felt wrong, undone—

now I wait for it to start up,

knowing it will, knowing any night,

any three in the morning,

I'll hear it calling from the dark, the fright

of something broken, warning.

I haven't slept properly since.

Every night I lie awake,

listening for the beep, the tense

anticipation, the ache

of knowing that failure's coming,

that something will break,

that my body's now numbing

to rest for the damage's sake.