The Sound I Didn’t Hear

Eight-seventeen,

a blurry clock behind thick glass,

sheets twisted like lies around a cold bed.

My phone, mute and traitorous,

hid its shrill cry beneath silent plastic.

I slept, or drowned, through the warning,

missing the train that swallowed dreams.

The message burned my eyes:

"Where are you? They’re waiting."

The city moved without me—

a rushing river, and I was a stone, stuck.

I raced the day, ragged and falling short,

heart a pounding drum in a silent room.

Late, always late—

a failure in small, broken time,

held hostage by a sound I didn’t hear.