Dissolve

The afternoon holds its breath in amber glass. Each shadow grows longer, older, speaking in a language the sun is forgetting—

Names blur first. The neighbors' faces fade into the geometry of their windows. I cannot remember if the door was blue or green, only that it opened, once, into summer.

Light pools on the kitchen table like spilled cream, and I am dissolving with it, every certainty softening at the edges, my hands turning translucent as the walls lean toward darkness.

Evening does not arrive. It seeps. A slow erasure of the day's small claims— the forgotten word, the unmade call, the version of myself I wore this morning, already a sketch in fading light.

Tomorrow I will remember nothing, and that forgetting feels like coming home.