In the waking hours

In the waking hours, I find some part of me lost

left in the stillness like an offering sacrificed for a taste of silence.

In the waking hours, time is dragged, as if out of some trench,

and color is re-imagined.

When at night light drew hidden hues from corners,

gently growing dim as it stretched across the space—morning moves sharply.

Day grows long, its finite edges bleeding into the infinite veil.

We meet here in the night, these missing pieces and I,

a soft embrace in light that only now finds meaning.