Before the streetlight turns on

And then—

the pavement shifts beneath my feet,

not a stumble, exactly,

more the gentle jolt of realising

I’ve been walking without

knowing where.

The air carries the taste of rain

that hasn’t yet decided to fall,

a cool hesitation

lingering in my lungs.

Somewhere above me,

clouds loosen into darker shapes,

folding the day into evening.

The streetlight ahead

isn’t on, isn’t off—

just humming,

as though the bulb

is remembering how to glow.

Its slender shadow

stretches across the asphalt,

a line I haven’t crossed yet.

A sparrow flickers across the curb,

pauses mid-hop—

and I match its stillness,

my breath a small anchor

in the long pull of the moment.

Behind me:

the cup cooling on the kitchen table,

the unspoken thing

I almost let fall from my mouth.

The way leaving

is a form of carrying—

a quiet weight,

folded and hidden

in the lining of my coat.

The streetlight’s hum grows—

a gathering of light in its throat,

a warm inevitability.

I take another step,

measuring the distance

between what I was,

and what I might still be,

walking in the fragile dusk

just before the streetlight turns on.