The Waking Hour

A blue light shines through the window of the launderette, casting stripes on the floor. An unopened letter lies on the counter where my hands would have been. A song plays that I am also singing, a tenderness toward an object I do not understand.

A woman is at the till, adding change to her items with small gestures. The other machines spin like stars in a night sky and a blue light casts its glow on everything it touches. Time is broken, the world spun askew. The hands of the clock are set at 3am, where they will remain until I am ready.