I dropped the afternoon
and watched it shatter into twenty different shadows.
One slipped under the table
and pretended to be a memory.
Another climbed the wall
and tried on the outline of a future
I never quite stepped into.
A thin one lingered by the window,
tapping its foot
as if waiting for me
to make a decision I’d postponed for years.
Two curled together on the floor,
whispering about the version of me
who still believes in easy answers.
I didn’t try to gather them.
Shadows don’t return to their owners
once they’ve tasted distance.
So I let them wander the room,
each carrying a fragment of the day
I was too distracted to live.
By evening, only one remained –
the smallest, the quietest,
the one that had followed me for months
without asking for anything.
It sat beside me
as if to say:
not every hour needs repairing.
Some can simply be released.