I watch night slip around corners,
not as a thief of light,
but a bringer of solitude.
At first, only a suggestion of color,
a faint blue gathering
where the walls meet the floor,
beneath the furniture,
in the hollows daylight has abandoned.
Indigo surfaces in the lowest places,
deepening without movement,
as water rises from somewhere unseen.
Violet wells up from within it,
a slow unfolding of color,
until the corners lose their edges
and the room begins to soften.
The darkness rises without a sound,
slipping beneath the table,
curling around the legs of chairs,
filling the spaces between things
until it reaches me.
It rests against my skin
with the softness of fog,
cool and permeable,
a presence I can breathe through.
I do not turn on the light.
There are things too delicate
for the brightness of day,
thoughts that scatter
beneath its insistence,
strange and lovely things
that have not yet learned
the shape of themselves.
Here, fragments begin to gather,
remnants of what has been,
intimations of what might yet be.
They take shape in the indigo,
vibrate for a moment
at the edge of recognition,
then dissolve
back into themselves.
Somewhere beyond the windows,
the world is becoming mysterious again.
And within me,
something equally unknowable
begins to rise.
I sit quietly
in the indigo dark,
neither waiting nor searching,
allowing the night
to bring whatever it will.
Leave a Reply