When the Night Forgets Itself

When the Night Forgets Itself

The night once forgot itself,

and dawn arrived too soon.

The stars blinked, startled and lost,

their silver scattered in confusion.

Dreams spilled into waking,

and the air smelled of change.

I walked barefoot through the half-light,

listening for a truth that hid from sound.

Somewhere, a clock refused to move,

as if mourning the end of sleep.

The wind tugged softly at my sleeve,

asking me not to go too far.

But I did. I always do.

And when I looked back, the night was gone.

Only morning stood there, quiet and kind,

as if it knew what I had left behind.

I reached for what was fading,

the hush before the light.

Even endings can be gentle,

when seen from the edge of night.

And there, where time holds its breath,

I understood the truth I’d sought.

The night forgets itself to be forgiven,

and I forget to be caught.