5:00 am;
the sun has yet to rise.
the candlelight stands sentinel on the table,
pooling over
words, pages, lifelines,
pressing on them, drowning them
beyond the reach of understanding.

My shadow stretches long against the wall
desperate to flee yet soldered in place.
I choke on air thickened by rancid breath
and on words that hang like hollow husks.

Somewhere, a nightjar stirs too early,
hoodwinked by this false sun
I sit idly
writing to no one,
writing to everything.