Luminescence at the Edge

Light bends through the prism of morning, refracts into colors that have no names, and I am standing where day learns to breathe.

Your shadow falls across this moment like a question I've been holding since the world grew quiet.

The hours slip through our fingers, translucent as silk, burning at the edges, and we do not mourn them.

Because this—the singular grace of now, the light that knows its own ending— is luminescence enough.