The Small Death I Could Hear

The lamp had been loyal for five years,

a steady glow against the dark,

faithful and sure.

Then came the click—

not loud, just final,

a small death I could hear.

The filament inside went black.

Just like that.

No warning, no slow fade,

just the pop and the absence,

the way the dark rushed in

to fill what the light left behind.

I sat there, reading in the nothing,

the book still in my lap,

words I couldn't see,

and I thought about how

we never really know when

something's about to fail.

We live with things so long

we forget they're dying slowly,

burning themselves out

one moment at a time.

Then the click comes.

Then the dark.

Then you're sitting alone

holding a book you can't read

and a lamp that's finally,

finally done.