Evening’s gilded fingers  

unhand the words of my book, 

caressing as if whispering a promise  

to return tomorrow. 

The moon arrives, tiptoe—  

hiding, peeking,

as letters darken  

and words yawn.


I turn pages with frantic haste,  

hold tighter, read faster,  

as if urgency could  

outpace the inevitable.  


But then,

a breath.  

I lift my eyes.


My flowerpot dissolves

into the swallowing dusk.

The letters clung, lingering,  

until the moment  

I surrender to dark

and let the night flood in.


Perhaps love slips away the same,

I lose the light  

by turning my eyes from  

the fragile, shivering glow  

to the gathering night.  

We lose love, often,  

before it’s truly gone.


If only we had strained  

to see what remained,  

instead of naming the end  

too soon, too fast—


if only I hadn’t called  

the weakening light  

darkness,  

too soon,  

too fast.