Half-Past Midnight
In the space between their shadows
The room was sepia,
glazed with the dull hum
of streetlights seeping through
curtains — my father’s shadow
folding into itself, a coat
on the chair, his voice
a low rumble against
the clock’s thick ticks.
He never looked at me,
just through the space
where I clung to silence
like a child, knowing
that words were heavy,
their weight measured
in breaths we didn’t take.
My mother’s hands,
cracked like old porcelain,
carried the coffee pot
to the table, a slow pour
that filled the room
with the scent of burnt
dreams. She whispered
my name, as though
it was fragile, a secret
that might shatter
against the floor.
I wanted to ask why
we were always awake
at half-past midnight,
but I already knew —
the answer was in the way
she turned the cup
just so, hiding
the chipped rim from sight.
I watched them —
two figures etched
in the dimness,
their lives bleeding
into mine,
lines of a poem
unfinished,
each pause
a crack in the façade.
And I, the unwanted
verse, lingered
in the space between
their shadows,
waiting for the night
to swallow the silence
whole.
