By Charles M. Sumid
Copyright 2025 Written 2024

I know you’re up. The little dots appeared
then vanished like you swallowed back the words
you almost sent. I’ve typed and cleared
a dozen drafts myself—absurd
how we both lie here, screens bright, pretending sleep
while carefully not saying what we mean.
Tomorrow we’ll be casual when we meet,
discuss the weather, work, keep everything routine.
But right now in this blue-lit honesty,
this almost-speaking silence that we share,
I wonder if you’re wondering if we
might stop this careful dance around the dare
of saying what these midnights know we want—
before the morning makes us nonchalant.