2am

Everything is loud.

The clock’s unbearable tick

Splintering.

Fracturing.

Your hand shakes

as you pass me the glass.

We both know it’s nearly over.

We lived well, or

well enough; we stood

for something.

That’s what they’ll say

if they say anything.

We’re already past tense.

I touch your arm and

your breathing slows.

We’re still here.

That’s all that matters, for now.

The lamp flickers and dies.

There is a knock at the door.

This came from a writing group prompt: 2am. I watched a documentary about the night of the long knives in Germany before WW2 and wanted to reflect the feeling of waiting for that knock.

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