The digital clock clicks over to threefifteen

The digital clock clicks over to three-fifteen

with a tiny, synthetic snap of blue light.

The refrigerator stops its low, industrial groan,

and the silence that follows is a physical weight,

a heavy blanket that keeps me pinned and wide.

The streetlamp outside is doing all the work,

pushing through the gaps in the plastic blinds

to paint a ladder of shadows across the ceiling.

I can hear the pipes in the wall settling down,

and the thought of the morning alarm is a bruise

I keep pressing on just to see if it still hurts.

I am the only thing in the house that won't turn off.