Evening Again.

I sit in the quiet
and realise how quickly
the rooms have emptied.

Life moved past me
without announcement.
One season folded into another
and suddenly
this is almost it.

The old dreams
hang like dresses
at the back of a wardrobe.
Faded.
Out of fashion.
Too small for who I became.

I do not reach for them anymore.

There are no new dreams waiting
in bright paper.
No grand designs.
Only a long corridor
and the sound of my own steps.

Mistakes walk beside me.
Patient companions.
They no longer shout.
They simply breathe near my ear
as if to say
we are still here.

Everything I built
seems lighter now.
Books. Words. Plans.
They blur in the fog of grief
as though someone has breathed
on the glass of my life
and left it clouded.

I try to wipe it clear
but my hands are tired.

And yet
I am starting again.

Broken, yes.
But whole in the way
a cracked bowl
still holds water.

The tears come without permission.
Persistent.
Almost irritating.
They wash my face again and again
as if I have been marked
and must be cleaned.

Perhaps they know
what I refuse to admit.
That something in me
is being rinsed back
to its bare skin.

Life hands me lemons these days.
Sharp.
Unforgiving on the tongue.

I ask quietly
will there be oranges again
sweet and sunlit
easy to peel

Though truthfully
I would accept apples.
Plain. Familiar.
Solid in the hand.

I am not asking for feasts.

I only want
to breathe without effort
to wake without bracing
to feel the air
enter and leave

as if it belongs to me.