postp.day
the day after.
Morning, after.
The light arrives quietly, with no instructions. Coffee cools without ceremony. Something has passed and the room has not yet noticed.
What remains.
Confetti in the corners of the floor. A folded napkin still bearing the curve of someone's thumb. The body remembers, even when the mind has agreed to forget.
Empty plazas.
The square holds the shape of last night's crowd. Pigeons walk where dancers stood. The fountain forgets its audience and keeps singing anyway.
Sky, pale.
The clouds have softened. They carry the weather of yesterday on their backs, going somewhere quieter than here.
Warmth returning.
A window opens itself to the sun. The walls remember that they are made of small, ordinary days. We resume the gentle work of being here.
Reflections.
What we processed, we processed slowly. What we could not, we left for tomorrow. The day is gentle with what it cannot solve.
Returning.
Footsteps on the stair, a kettle, a sentence half-finished. The house is learning the new shape of us.