2 am

2 am

2 am
soft whirring of the ceiling fan
only crickets hold the silence at bay
in the darkness outside
the faint yellow light
leaking from the kitchen window.
unmindful, night moves toward morning,
August toward September,
as if busy with other concerns.
innocent of remembering, I was tenth out of nine
and left to make sense of it all.
who knows why I scratch for these moments
with no phone ringing
and might-have-been friends trading polite but distant words?
in the white glow my fingers struggle to reply
still tenth out of nine.