The Weight of Ordinary Light

Morning arrives without announcement, gold threading through kitchen windows, dust motes trembling like small birds. I watch them—these particles that were never meant to be seen.

We move through rooms half-awake, our shadows always following. The coffee cools in familiar cups. Someone speaks a familiar name and we pretend we're still listening.

Distance is just light taking time. Starlight is always ancient— a message from the already-dead, delivered to our small hands that never learn how to hold it.

At dusk, the sky forgets itself. Clouds dissolve into suggestion. We become silhouettes briefly, then nothing but the echo of footsteps someone else remembers.