As If the Light Knew

It came without calling -

a sliver of gold across the sink,

where a glass sat

half-washed, still waiting

for the warmth of hands.

Dust hung like breath held too long,

daring to settle,

as if time had stopped just

to see what silence looked like

before it spoke.

The hum of the fridge,

the distant wings of a fly,

and then -

a flicker.

Not sound,

but shift.

Like the air had changed its mind.

Outside, the leaves shivered,

not with wind,

but memory -

as if remembering what it was

to be touched

by something other than rain.

And in the moment before movement,

before the breeze curled the curtain’s edge,

I saw it -

not the world,

but the seam between it.

Thin as a whisper.

Bright as a promise

never said aloud.