The Glitch

8:14 AM. The sun is a yellow bruise

on the rim of my chipped coffee mug.

The toast smells like it’s burning again,

the exact same char as three years ago.

I look up at the ceiling.

The crack is still there, a lightning bolt

frozen in the old plaster.

I know exactly how the floor will creak

before I even move my foot.

I’ve been this tired before.