I sit beside my daughter on her bed.
I cannot see her.
I've peeled and sliced a cold apple
To fill her late night hunger.
A faint incandescence glows behind my wife, upon our bed.
I see a silhouette of the shapely table lamp, swaying slightly.
The clock projects the time upon the ceiling.
From where I sit, the red, digital time reads 85:01.
All I hear is my daughter crunch on apple slices.
Soft, hypnotic, crisp.
The night is poised like the luscious 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.