Dustlight Morning
by Luc
· 09/02/2026
Published 09/02/2026 16:42
The blinds let in a stripe.
A thin blade, sharp.
It catches the air,
thick with what was said,
or not said.
A metallic taste,
like old pennies
in a dry mouth.
There it is.
The quiet.
Not peace.
Just the absence
of sound.
A damp sock, balled tight,
lies near the bed's edge.
A small, forgotten thing.
The light finds it.
It is just a sock.
It is not peace.