Before the Lights Go Out
The day always ends at the fingertips that switch off the light. A moment before I press it, the things that happened today hang in the room like leftover warmth. Not everything went well, but not everything went wrong either. That's enough, I tell myself, and for tonight I let it rest there.
On the night the windows I'd seen today went dark one by one, I turned off the light in my room to that rhythm. There was a little warmth left even after it went out, and I was glad of it.