The Dying Day

The day doesn’t end all at once.

It weakens.

Light thinning at the edges,

hours learning how to let go.

I watch it die quietly—

no drama,

no final words—

just shadows stretching

like they’re tired too.

The dying day carries

everything I didn’t finish:

conversations I rehearsed,

apologies I swallowed,

hope I meant to believe in

a little harder.

Night arrives

like an understanding,

not cruel,

just honest about what remains.

I sit with the dark

and take inventory—

what hurt,

what survived,

what I’ll try again tomorrow

if morning is kind.

The dying day doesn’t judge me.

It just leaves.

And somehow,

that feels like permission

to rest

without explaining myself.