I sit beside my daughter on her bed.
I cannot see her.
I've peeled and sliced for her
A cold apple.
A faint incandescence glows behind my wife.
I see a silhouette of the table lamp, swaying slightly.
The clock projects the time above me
Upon the ceiling.
From where I sit, the red, digital time reads 85:01.
My daughter crunches on her apple slices.
Soft, hypnotic, crisp.
The night is poised like the glass of wine
At the edge of the bedside table.
A word, a spoken word, like a careless hand,
Will topple the night and make it shatter.