Shrinking Shapes

Their voices thin, fragile as cracked glass,

a step slower, slower, each one a soft pass.

I watched them struggle with a lightbulb’s glow,

hands shaking like leaves caught in cold winds’ blow.

Laughter brittle, breaking in sharp little bits,

a warmth faded to shadows in dimly lit fits.

Familiar rooms stretched too wide for their frames,

like memories shrinking beneath forgotten names.

I reached out, but they’re smaller than I recall,

tiny silhouettes against the vast wall.

The weight of time folding them slow,

watching them become less than I know.