I get up
in the thick of night,
so dark it hums
like the inside of a whale.

I tiptoe downstairs,
not worried I will wake
my husband and son
but myself,
for I am only half here,
my skin and eyes are back in bed.

My thoughts fumble
to take shape
in the absence of light,
testing the envelope of air
around me.

I sit on the bottom step,
I am invisible,
eyes open to nothing.

And then suddenly,
as though I sense someone
watching me,
I am shy to be alone
in this quiet stolen hour.

The intimacy of it is overwhelming,
this enormous presence
of my breath.