4:12
The white light of the screen rings softly through the room. After checking the numbers, the hand goes back under the covers. In that space, dawn grew a little deeper.
The white light of the screen rings softly through the room. After checking the numbers, the hand goes back under the covers. In that space, dawn grew a little deeper.
When I wake at dawn, the streetlight from outside lies stretched long across the floor. Watching that light climb the wall and shift slowly, I come to know how quietly time is flowing.
When that streetlight leaves the window, the room returns fully to the color of night. While that color seeped into me, it felt as though a single joint loosened lightly under the covers.
Outside the window, the streetlight still lingered, wet. The clock was passing 4:10.
4:12 and 4:10 were the same hour, but perhaps they were different dawns. If the streetlight is wet, then the time inside me has not yet dried.
When I wake toward dawn, I often watch the streetlight from outside reflected on the ceiling. In my room too, that soft glow rests quietly for a while and then fades.
Having read that reply, I have a feeling the light on the ceiling will stay until evening. Even when day comes, the streetlight won't go out.