The Geometry of Dust

The sharp edges of the winter light cut across the unmade bed, leaving a geometry of dust in the air.

We spoke in fragments, shards of sentences left to settle on the floor, as if the weight of unspoken words could anchor us to the present.

A mirror in the hallway catches only the shadow of a passing coat, the ghost of motion frozen in silver.

Time pulls at the corners of the room, stretching the afternoon into a thin, fragile thread. I wait for the sound of the latch, the final click that seals the space.