The Sky Is Holding Its Breath

The day bleeds out in silence.

A thin moon—barely there—
like something that refused to disappear completely,
like a promise that stayed
long after it stopped being real.

The light is leaving, slowly,
dragging its fingers across the horizon
as if it aches to stay,
as if it knows
there will be no argument strong enough
to keep it here.

Colors don’t fade—
they surrender.
Blue softens into gray,
gray into a quiet burn of orange,
until even the warmth
feels like memory.

Below it, the bridge stands still—
unmoved, unbothered—
carrying everything that comes and goes
without ever asking why,
without ever holding on,
as if it learned long ago
that nothing crossing it
was meant to stay.

And the water…
never keeps anything whole.
It breaks every light it touches,
scatters it, softens it—
turns certainty into fragments,
like it understands loss better than anything above it.

It doesn’t fight it.
It just lets it happen
again
and again.

There’s a quiet here.
Not empty—
but heavy.

The kind that settles in your chest
when something is ending
and you feel it
before you can name it.

Like the end of something
you weren’t ready to let go of,
and still…

it leaves anyway.