Drawn Curtains

The light went out.

Not suddenly, no crash.

Just a slow doubt.

A pale, silent ash.

Your window,

always dawn-lit,

now a black show.

A shade, unlit.

I knew the shape

of your morning cup,

the way you'd scrape

a chair, then get up.

No names. No words.

Just patterns, seen.

Now a sign stirs,

where life had been.

The small plant,

on the sill, dead.

A silent, withered chant.

The colors bled.