At 1 a.m. the ceiling
becomes a screen, and
every conversation you
almost had plays on it
in order. She counted
the questions the way
other people count sheep —
what if I had said it
differently, what if I
still can. The room held
still around her, not
answering, not leaving.
Somewhere past two, the
questions ran out of
fuel, one by one, like
streetlights shutting off.
What stayed wasn't peace
exactly. It was quieter
than asking. The dark
didn't hand her an
answer. It just sat
beside her until the
questions forgot her
name.