Threshold Light

The hour when shadows become questions, when the last sycamore leaf turns its underside like a secret finally told.

I watch the sky drain itself of certainty, color pooling at the horizon— violet, then ash, then the long arithmetic of dusk.

Your voice arrives late, carrying the weight of distance: a river stone, smooth from the friction of years.

I cannot hold it. The light leaves too, and I am left with only the shape of what it illuminated.

Tomorrow will ask nothing of this dark. It will fill the space between heartbeats like water finding stone.