paintin' the cracks where the light dies

the sun slips through cracks painting the walls with silent stories. shadows bloom like forgotten whispers, while dust dances underfoot. i keep a sketchbook here not for art but for the quiet hum between moments. somewhere a cat chases its tail, and the air smells of decay and mango pivot. this place insists on being seen through the gaps we avoid. there’s a stalaktite here, a water trickle, a floorboard groaning. they’re all there, but no one looks. wind carries whispers that linger like static. i’ve found a mirror far away, but it shows nothing. even my reflection stares back with too many blank spaces. windows frame the void, and rain falls softly, washing nothing clean. this is the slow reckoning, the kind that hums beneath fingertips.

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