Thirty-six hours. I’m awake
doing the math, subtracting time from time,
while the ceiling fan makes its rounds
and outside someone’s still laughing.
I’ve already packed the bag in my head,
already said the goodbyes,
already driven to the airport,
already home—
future-haunted,
rehearsing the departure.
The palm trees stand in the dark
the way they always stand.
But here I am at 2 AM,
awake,
stealing from myself.
