The Flicker and The Fade

Finding weight and comfort in the creeping violet of the evening.

The Flicker and the Fade

The sun does not simply set; it retreats like a tired king, dragging its gold-spun robes across the bruised horizon.

In the corners of the room, the shadows are waking up. They do not have voices, but they have weight— a soft, velvet pressure against the walls.

I stand in the doorway, halfway between the orange glow and the creeping violet. One hand is warm, the other is already cooling.

We spend our lives chasing the light, forgetting that stars need the dark to show their teeth. Forget that a shadow is just proof that something solid is standing in the way.

I will wait here, on the edge of the eclipse, until the light is a memory and the shadows are the only thing left to hold.

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