Where Light Forgets

Where light forgets its silver names, the window holds a stranger's gaze— dust spiraling like small regrets.

A book left open on the chair collects the hours nobody reads. Rain taps against the glass, patient, as if it knows we're always late.

The garden hums with insects' gossip, their wings a currency of sound, trading stories the grass will never keep.

Sometimes I think we're made of this: the moments we forget to notice, the doors we almost opened, the light that left before we learned its language.