The Weight of Morning

The cold grain of the blanket at my fingertips stands in for a clock. The alarm didn't ring, and outside, instead of birdsong, a distant car horn sounded once. The coffee had already gone cold, and the first sip was sour on the tip of my tongue. Sitting there not knowing what day of the week it was, I suddenly felt, under my fingernails, the dust that had gathered overnight. The texture of that dust, at least, proved today for certain.