sit with me on the kitchen floor at 4 am, eating microwaved indian leftover from last night

don’t say a word

we can linger in the quiet seconds between night and day and breathe air that, for once, does not suffocate us with its terrifying vastness
sit with me on the kitchen floor, these white walls stripped bare and left emotionless but aching

if you hold my hand maybe it will keep the darkness at bay

our skin lit only by a single light bulb, precariously flickering between bright and dull as the world outside our window sleeps

sit with me on the kitchen floor, and maybe this loneliness will become something less profound and more content, or at least more resigned.