Elegy for a Long Day

Morning came too early
and found me unguarded.

The house was already speaking —
in sharp corners,
in scattered things,
in noise that did not wait to be understood.

I asked for five quiet minutes.
The request dissolved.

Every kindness misplaced.
Every word returned sharpened.
Small mercies refused.

Milk fell like surrender.
Coffee spread like accusation.
Silence gathered where my voice should have been.

So I cleaned.

Not just the floor,
but the edges of myself —
the temper,
the ache,
the thought of leaving the room
and not coming back.

Love stood there too,
heavy and unrelenting.
Duty did not blink.
Guilt folded itself neatly into my chest.

And something in me
gave way.

Not loudly.
Not dramatically.

Just enough
to know it had been carrying
more than one pair of hands should.

Now the house lies still.
Not healed —
just quiet.

And I lie beside the dark,
defeated,
depleted,
mourning the ease
I did not have today.

Waiting for morning
like a question

and hoping
it asks more gently.