Luminescence

The old bulb in the stairwell trembles, casting its frail gold on worn brick— a small defiance against the dark.

I climb through layers of this light, each step a descent into memory, where your silhouette still hesitates on the landing.

The filament glows itself to nothing. What remains is the shape of the shine, the ghost of warmth on the back of the hand.

Some nights I think light is just the world forgetting how to hide— becoming visible as it dissolves.