To Walk in Diminished Light

I learned to walk where the bright ones fade,

where dawn bends low to touch the street.

I hid my fire in borrowed shade,

and veiled my heart in human heat.

I laughed in tongues that were not mine,

smiled through silence, soft and sweet.

Their voices wove around my spine—

a tapestry of sound and deceit.

They did not see the stars I kept

like embers trembling under skin,

nor hear the hymns my pulse had wept

for worlds I’d lost and might begin.

So I became both less and more—

a whisper framed in flesh and fear,

a shimmer walking shore to shore,

pretending not to disappear.

Yet sometimes, in the city’s hum,

a window gleams, a shadow parts—

and light uncoils, becoming sum

of all the selves I’ve torn apart.

Then I remember: every disguise

was not deceit, but mercy’s art—

to learn their grief, to wear their skies,

and find the mortal in my heart.