Dissolve

A moment crystallizes— the exact angle of light through kitchen glass, your voice in the hallway calling something I forget.

I hold it gently in my hand like water that knows it cannot stay. The edges blur. The center softens.

What remains is not the thing itself but its shadow on the wall, the shape of its absence, the way forgetting feels

like falling through floors of smaller and smaller rooms, each one holding less light, each one closer to silence.

Still, I gather the pieces— a word, a smell, the color of a dress you wore on a Tuesday that has already become myth.