The clock says four and the air is thin

The clock says four and the air is thin.

I can feel the room start to settle in.

The shivering stopped a minute ago

and the heat in my blood is starting to go.

The sheets are a heavy, gray, twisted rope

tangled around the last of my hope.

I’m soaked to the bone and shivering still,

the kind that comes after the peak of the hill.

I can smell the old coffee from two days back

when the world was a blur and the ceiling was black.

Now I just lie in the damp and the cold,

feeling a hundred years too old.