Poetry

by Scribe Leaf Library · 1 min read · 2 views

At 3 a.m. the house admits the truth it hides all day beneath the kettle's noise — that every room still holds the shape of youth, small ghosts of laundry, homework, broken toys. The fridge hums on, unbothered by the hour, a small mechanical, contented thing. I stand here holding nothing but the power to notice what the daylight doesn't bring: that quiet isn't empty, it is full — of everyone who's slept beneath this roof, of all the ordinary, patient pull of love that needs no daylight as its proof. I'll go back up. The small hours don't ask why. They just stay lit a little, and let me stay awake, and then say goodbye.