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.
Through the Fog 