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The last stretch of daylight
before sunset,
have we become
too jaded by the coming
of night, to see?
If it could speak,
if we could translate
its voice in colors,
it would be something
like soliciting for
a final confession,
that it can lead away
like a thing lost
not by accident
though later on,
within the folds
of time slipped forward,
we will still think
we lost it by accident
and not remember
the grace in the gesture
and feel regret
rather clumsily,
go around in circles
looking no more intently
for the thing lost
than for the remains
of ourselves
when we still had it,
when it was still
in existence before
its existence faded,
or was taken,
a memory.
Who we used to be
is the one hardest
to come back to.

There is always that song
that should naturally
come after this one
currently playing
that would have
put together the pieces
of our last dream
but the complexity
of the moment somehow
makes it a violation of
some unspoken rule
to meddle with the cue.
we make an excuse
and in the next instant
unconsciously give it a name:
a respect to the unseen,
that hence,
we assume unknowable,
and the fading of
the colors into night
dissolves what potential
was once there,
also invisible,
but small enough
to fit in our hands,
small enough to let go of
and forget

until we miss it
and remember,
and find it hard to believe
the shadows could have
walked away with it
without our noticing.

“Evening Beetle” by photographer Alexander Martynov