In the hush where daylight thins and breaks,
I feel the floor of my own heart give way.
A quiet tide of shadows slowly takes
The names I used to call myself by day.
I walk through rooms where every mirror dims,
Where even breath sounds distant, small, and cold.
The dark is not a door that simply swings—
It is a hand that loosens what I hold.
And still I go, though I do not know why,
Down into that unlit and narrowing place,
Where all my brightest reasons seem to die
And grief sits heavy, patient, face to face.
There, in the depth, I hear a fragile spark:
Not joy, not hope—just proof I am still here.
A pulse beneath the weight, a thread in dark,
A trembling voice that says, “You have not disappeared.”
So if I sink, let it be slow and true,
A falling that can teach me how to bend.
For even in the night, I may pass through
And find, beyond the dark, a way to mend.