Three in the Morning

At this hour the ceiling becomes a country without borders and I its only waking inhabitant.

The fridge breathes in the kitchen. The clock coughs out its seconds like an old man who does not want to die before dawn.

I make the list of what I did not say, of the doors I closed too gently so that nobody could blame me for the slam.

Sleep is a train that goes by without braking and I watch it cross from a platform of rumpled sheets.

When at last the light seeps grey under the curtain, I give in, grateful: let the day come and take off my shoulders the weight of being so awake.