Dusk Arithmetic

The light doesn't fade—it migrates. Gold coins spill from the western window, scatter across floorboards like loose change from an old god's pocket.

I count them twice, never the same sum. Each minute steals one, adds shadow. The trees lean in, hungry for darkness, while the sky bleeds out its colors in reverse order from birth.

Nothing ends cleanly here. The birds choose their exits mid-song. The clouds keep their brightness longer than seems fair, holding it like a secret they'll never tell.

Even the air tastes different— copper, dust, the ghost of tomorrow. I stand in this between, unmeasured, knowing that light never really dies, just learns to hide.