the following poem was written in response to above photo for an online poetry class
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The night does not arrive—it accumulates, like dust on the spines of unread books. A slow, inevitable seep, a weight that presses without hands. You think you hear footsteps, but it’s only the house exhaling, only the creak of old wood remembering when it was alive. The dark isn’t empty~ it’s thick with the unsaid, with the breath you held too long, with the shape of a name you carved into your ribs and never spoke aloud. And when the moon slides its blade between the curtains, you’ll see it: how the shadows cling to your ankles, how they whisper, You are not the light~ but neither are you nothing.
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