Interstitial

Morning light arrives in fragments through the kitchen window— dust motes spelling words I forgot I knew, the alphabet of small forgettings.

The radio hums between stations, that white noise where voices live before they become names, before they matter, before they die.

I find a receipt in an old jacket, a date I cannot claim, a coffee shop still faint in the fabric—the ghost of steam.

What stays isn't the moment itself but the space it leaves: the shape of an absence, luminous and precise, the way light pools in an empty hand.