The Watching

Morning yawns, rubs sleep from its eyes—tick, tock. The kettle shrieks—I skip. Steam curls, puffs in the air.

Pour. The cup trembles with heat, unlike my hands—forever steady. I watch—one sugar, two—swirling crystals drown.

Tick. Tock. Another minute devoured. The coffee infinitely cools, longing for warmth. Sip anyway—bitter, like words never spoken.

The cup empties. Washed thrice, the porcelain record of memories long forgotten. The sound persists.

Tick. Tock. Afternoon stretches. Cracks on the ceiling—eleven, twelve—a sad constellation of neglect. Silence presses against my face.

Sunlight spills across the table. Pooling around the empty chair. It remembers an impression no one fills. Its shadow points longingly toward the door.

Tick. Tock. Dusk comes. The shadows age. A car door breaks the air. I peer through the window. I know better. Still, I turn. Still, nothing.

From the hall, keys rattle—tickling a lock. My heart skips. I don’t recognize, a stranger? Why—always strangers.

Night folds around the chair. The kettle sleeps. Cold. Patient. Like me. Tomorrow, the sun will rise. I will too—tick, tock—tick, tock.