The Memory of a Shadow

The shadow remains where the light once leaned, a charcoal stain on the sun-bleached pine. It remembers the shape of a leaning glass, and the weight of a hand that is no longer there.

Time is a solvent that works in reverse, thickening the absence into a kind of felt. You can trace the outline with a fingertip and feel the cold where the warmth should have been.

At dusk, the corners of the room begin to pool, filling the hollows with a violet ink. The shadow stretches, trying to reach the door, but it is tethered to the spot where it was born.

Even when the lamps are lit and the night is barred, the memory of that darkness holds its ground. A ghost of a gesture, a silhouette of breath, waiting for the sun to give it back its name.