what light flies past shutters, breaks windows, shatters glass,

to reach inside and tug you out of the dark shadow beside your bed

at 2:37 am when the telephone cord seems like a snake ready to bite

and your screams are stifled by a pillow pressed up against your head?

right now, none.

wrinkles in the pillow are leaving red imprints on your face

like jagged lines of tears or lines of blood or maybe both because there have been too many tears,

too much blood, too many 2:37 ams spent in the shadow beside your bed.

2:37 ams spent waiting for all of this to stop, for him to come running out of the building,

2:37 ams spent wishing for light to crash through windows in a desperate attempt to save you

and save him.