Leftover light

Impossible closeness

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It’s late.
The world is made of hushed electricity,
a dim ache of leftover light.
Glimmering somewhere underneath my skin,
everything feels slightly unfastened,
as if reality forgot to button itself,
before slipping into the dark.

I’m laying awake in a half-dissolved night,
thoughts drifting like soft embers.
And you rise again,
uninvited, inevitable,
a silhouette carved from the faint warmth
still humming in my bones.

You exist for me now
in the spaces between breaths,
in the thin shimmer,
where memory and longing blur.
I reach for you,
the way a pulse longs for a body,
no longer there.
Foolishly, without knowing it should.

You’ve become a kind of gravity,
tugging at the softest parts of me,
pulling me towards a horizon I cannot touch,
but cannot stop staring at,
from the dark corners of myself.
Somewhere in the dark,
the universe rearranges
into the shape of your absence.

I try to let the feeling settle,
try to hold it gently,
like fragile paper,
hiding it into the drawer of things,
I should outgrow.
But it slips through my hands,
a warm glint,
a soft burn,
a truth that refuses to cool.
There’s a sweetness to it,
this impossible closeness,
this distance dressed in tenderness.

It glows faintly,
like a forgotten lantern,
still lit after the feast is over.
Illuminating only the dust,
and the quiet,
and the place where you should be.

And so I lie here,
while the world sleeps,
holding a feeling
that doesn’t belong to he morning.
A quiet ache that stretches further
than the body longs for.

It’s late,
nothing is moving
except the part of me
that still wanders towards you
in the dark.

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