The fridge stops its mechanical panting

The fridge stops its mechanical panting,

leaving the air thick with a sudden, heavy debt.

I’m standing in the kitchen at 2 AM,

my bare feet sticky against the grit of the floor.

A single cockroach is pinned in the light of the range,

fixed like a specimen against the white linoleum.

Neither of us moves. We are both waiting

for the other to decide who owns the dark.

The pilot light flickers, a small, blue eye

watching the stove breathe in the draft.

I came for water but I’m drinking the silence,

listening to the walls settle into their rot.