The Angles Between

The light fractures differently now, cutting through trees at angles that don't match yesterday's geometry.

Dust motes swim in the late air, each one a planet with its own gravity, pulling at the silence between breaths.

I've forgotten the names of things— not the objects themselves, but the words, like a language melting at its edges.

The world continues its slow breathing, indifferent to my small cataloging, patient as only living things can be.