I ran for the keys with the breakfast still hot

I ran for the keys with the breakfast still hot,

believing the hour was a thing I had caught.

But the kitchen was quiet, the air was too still,

and the light fell like salt on the white window sill.

That cracked plastic face with the numbers in red

showed 4:12 exactly, like something you said

back when the winter was starting to bite

and we stood in this kitchen and gave up the fight.

The second hand twitches, a nervous, small jerk,

a heart that is trying but can’t make it work.

It’s right for a second, then fails the whole test,

while I’m standing here, doing my best.