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"in the Dark"

I did not hear the door close.

Only later, when the silence settled into the corners of the room, did I notice how completely you had gone.

The photographs remained, tilted slightly in their frames, holding the light of vanished afternoons.

A cup stood waiting beside the sink,

and dust gathered slowly where laughter used to land.

For a season I mistook absence for darkness.

I walked familiar corridors, hands outstretched, naming shadows as though they might answer.

There were nights when memory arrived unbidden,

a moth beating itself against the lantern of sleep.

There were mornings when hope seemed an extravagant rumour.

Somewhere beneath departure's rubble, beneath the collapsed scaffolds of expectation,

something small persisted.

The dark did not uncover me.

It remade me.

And when at last the horizon loosened its grip on night,

the window, pale with dawn.

The forgotten cup.

The photographs, holding their last light.

And wings,

unfurling

in the dark.

.