At 2 AM the apartment
settles into its own kind
of breathing — the
fridge, the pipes, the
neighbor's TV murmuring
through the wall.
You lie there cataloging
sounds, each one a small
anchor. Not because you
can't sleep, but because
sleep means letting go of
the vigilance, and some
part of you isn't ready
to trust the quiet yet.
The ceiling has a crack
you've traced a hundred
times. It looks like a
river on a map. You
follow it until the
thinking thins out, until
the thoughts are just the
noise between thoughts.
Somewhere between the
third breath and the
fourth, the river carries
you somewhere softer. Not
sleep yet. But the
doorstep of it.