The phone slips — glass shatters

The phone slips — glass shatters

like a scream on hardwood.

Bits of plastic bleeding light

under a half-empty glass,

a pill bottle hiding

beneath books stacked like regrets.

Fingerprints map sleeplessness,

ring stains pool in the corners,

a surface scratched

by restless nights that never end.

On this table, time folds,

a cluttered altar of almost-sleep,

of things forgotten,

of mornings cracked open

like brittle dreams.