The microwave numbers a green lonely glow

The microwave numbers, a green, lonely glow,

2:03, then 2:04, moving slow.

Another night, another round of this,

a quiet hum, where sleep becomes a miss.

I stand by the counter, picking at a cracker, stale,

a tasteless salt on the tongue, a common tale.

The refrigerator breathes, a constant, low drone,

and I'm just here, restless and alone.

No point in trying, not again, not now.

Just the faint buzz, and the empty, hollow vow

that tomorrow, maybe, it will all make sense.

But for now, just hunger, and this quiet pretense.