Time Or The Fitful Passing Of
In the middle of the night, it’s an alarm blaring
Into the small bedroom, in the last door on the right.
I don’t own a clock- I own a body. In a body is a clock.
The growing hour is a breath in my lungs. I sit at my desk,
the hardwood beneath my pale feet is frigid to touch
outside snow collects like the yawns of the weary.
Light from the lamp on my desk, light from my laptop screen
The growing hour is the shaking of my body as the outside cold invades me.
I wrap my jacket tighter and continue to work.
Time moves weirdly in the middle of the night.
It’s my fingers moving across the keyboard.
Time rushes through my veins. Cycles through my organs.
The growing hour is the pulse in my wrist, reminding me of the words late and sleep.
Featured Image By Amar Saleem on Pexels | Edited by Scarlet Noble
