Filament

The filament held its orange glow

for one more second than I expected,

as if it was deciding whether to keep burning.

Then the click. Actual sound, not metaphorical.

Teeth still half-brushed, toothpaste foam

in the corner of my mouth, visible

only because I'd just turned on the light.

Now I'm standing in the dark

and I can still see the outline of the bulb,

still see the wire inside cooling down

from bright to nothing, from something

to the memory of something.

I don't reach for the switch.

I stand there watching the filament fade,

the way you watch something leave

when you're not ready to look away yet.

The mirror in front of me is blank now.

I could be anything in this dark.

I could be someone who wasn't mid-routine,

someone who planned to be here.

But the toothbrush is still in my hand.

The foam is still there.

And the bulb is dead.