Amber in the Ordinary

Dust motes navigate the slant of gold— each particle a small sun, falling slowly through the window's geometry.

The room remembers itself differently now: chairs cast long shadows like questions, and the wall, always white, becomes a canvas of amber, rose, the colors of leaving.

Nothing moves but light. Nothing rests but shadow. We sit between them, ordinary, waiting for the hour to turn us golden too.

The day exhales. We hold our breath.