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the light remembers what the dark will take
a slow subtraction no one sees
the room still holds the shape of before
but the corners are leaving me
something in the wiring hums a lower note
a frequency I used to trust
I turn to face the window I once knew
but the glass has turned to dust
the dimming is a kindness dressed in gray
it asks for nothing but your sight
you do not notice when the gold begins to fade
until you're halfway into night
my hands still know the furniture by feel
the chair the door the waiting bed
I move through this arrangement like a ghost
rehearsing what I should have said
the dimming is a slow and silent guest
it never knocks it only stays
I am the house that learned to hold its breath
through all the dimming of the days
