The End of the Day
By the end of the day, I don’t recognize myself. I feel infected, some viral version of myself that is spreading now slowly in the crawling last seconds of daylight. I don’t recognize myself and I find myself giving in, the way the sun must feel when night is pulling down on it like gravity.
The best hours of the day are lost — twilight has been sacrificed to grinding dinner hour which we hurry through now that he comes home so late.
The end of the day is like a party guest who leaves without saying goodbye– the one guest you really wanted to talk to and never got a moment while refilling the cheeseball platter.
Tonight I think I’ll charge my headphones and go somewhere quiet and sing the songs I love that whisper sweet nothings to twilight.
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