Kitchen Light

Two AM. Again.
The kitchen light, a beacon in the dark,
pulls me from the tangled sheets.
Sleep won't come, not tonight.

Another day chewed up and spat out,
leaving me hollow, a discarded shell.
Emails unanswered, deadlines looming,
a constant hum beneath my skin.

The coffee pot gurgles, a lonely sound,
filling the silence with a bitter promise.
Of alertness, of temporary escape,
from the thoughts that circle like vultures.

I sit at the table, the cool linoleum
against my bare feet, grounding me.
The moon, a sliver through the window,
witness to my quiet despair.

Remember when we were kids?
Building forts of blankets and chairs,
conquering imaginary worlds,
untouched by the weight of expectation.

Now, the fort is gone, replaced by bills
and responsibilities, a life measured
in spreadsheets and missed connections.

The coffee burns my tongue, a welcome sting.
I trace the rings on the wooden table,
each one a memory, a laugh, a tear,
a testament to a life lived, however imperfect.

Outside, a dog barks in the distance,
a lonely sound that echoes my own.
But then, a bird chirps, a faint melody,
a reminder that even in the darkest night,
there is still a song to be sung.

The weight on my chest doesn't disappear,
but it shifts, just a little.
A sliver of hope peeks through the clouds,
like the moon, a promise of a new dawn.

Maybe tomorrow will be different.
Maybe the emails will answer themselves.
Maybe the deadlines will magically disappear.
Maybe, just maybe.

For now, I'll sit here, in the kitchen light,
sipping my bitter coffee,
listening to the silence,
and waiting for the sun to rise.

It's not much, but it's enough.
Enough to breathe,
Enough to keep going,
Enough to believe that even a broken bird can learn to fly again.
The kitchen light, a small, steady flame,
a reminder that even in the darkest night,
there is always a light to guide you home.
One day at a time, One night at a time, One quiet moment at a time.
This light, a small comfort, a promise for the coming dawn.