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.
I remember an old man sitting by the window at dusk, turning his head to switch on the light. That day, the shadows in the room moved unusually slowly.