Dimples Is Back

There comes an hour

when the world grows unbearably honest.

The sun hangs low enough

to reveal what daylight was kind enough to hide:

that nothing beautiful

has ever known how to stay.

The sky does not resist.

It unthreads itself in silence,

spilling gold into rust,

rust into ash,

until the horizon wears the bruised colors

of something that loved deeply

and lost without protest.

The road receives every fragment of light

without asking it to remain.

Perhaps that is why roads feel holy.

They understand

that every destination

is also a farewell.

I wonder how many endings

I have already survived

without recognizing them.

The last time I laughed

before grief learned my name.

The last ordinary evening

before someone I loved

became someone I missed.

The last embrace

that believed

there would always be another.

No one tells you

that life is not divided

by weddings,

funerals,

or birthdays.

It is divided

by sunsets you did not know

you would spend remembering.

Maybe that is why this hour

settles so heavily inside the chest.

Not because the day is dying—

but because somewhere beneath our ribs,

there is an old version of ourselves

still standing in a place

that no longer exists,

still waiting for someone

who has already become

part of the evening.

And every sunset,

without saying a word,

returns just enough light

to show us