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.

Elizabeth Howard

Elizabeth writes literary non-fiction, haiku, cultural rants, and Demand Poetry in order to forward the cause of beautiful writing. She calls London, Kansas City, and Iowa home.