Archive of Light

In the abandoned terminal, the clock keeps its quiet thrum, a blue bruise on the wall, full of small numbers falling like husks. Dust edits the silence, each mote a slow syllable.

I open a drawer and find the day folded into a thin aluminum calendar, its edges warm, a seam of noon still intact. The air tastes of iron and distant rain.

Outside, a field of antennas bends to wind, listening to weather that never arrives. Their shadows are thin ribbons, struck through the grass like chalk.

I carry the light inside my sleeve, let it stain the cuffs and the soft skin of my wrist; the room learns its color again, and I learn the patient weight of what remains.