Before I'm Anyone

Third morning.

I've been sitting on the edge of the mattress

longer than I need to.

I know where the floor is—

I know the cold starts

where the rug ends and the tile begins.

I'm stalling.

The dark at four in the morning

is different from other darks.

More committed.

It doesn't trail off.

I've been sitting here

not yet a person with a name for the day.

Not yet required to be anything.

There's something in that.

I don't want to make too much of it.

I just keep sitting here a little longer—

my hands on my knees,

the rug at my feet,

the tile beyond it,

the cold beyond that.