1:47

The can opener screams

in the dark kitchen at 1:47.

I know the time because I checked

before I came down.

Before I accepted that sleep

is not coming back.

The lid peels off in a curl.

The can sits with its sharp metal mouth.

I am very skilled at this.

Very skilled at being awake

when the rest of the city sleeps.

I pour the soup into the pot.

It's thick and congealed,

doesn't so much pour

as surrender to gravity.

The water doesn't steam yet.

It's learning.

I stand at the stove

and watch it heat.

There's something ritual about this—

the same pot, same burner,

the same decision that sleep

is optional.

Steam rises and catches the light

from above the stove.

My face is in it for a second,

wavering in the heat,

there and then not there,

the way I've been

for the past three hours.

I haven't called anyone.

Haven't texted.

There's no one to text at 1:47

except people who would ask

if I'm okay.

I'm not not okay.

I'm just awake.

The soup is hot now.

I pour it into a bowl.

The sound is the only sound

in this apartment.

The spoon against ceramic.

The swallowing.

The next breath.

This is the skill I've developed.

This is what I'm good at now:

being alone in a lit kitchen

when everyone else is dead

in their beds.

This is how I know

I'm still functioning.