The evening sky is tinted like sepia stained photographs
as if to tuck in the happenings of the day into memories
before they crumble beneath the weight of cloudless nights.
There is a sweet scent of nostalgia in the winds of a hard day’s evening,
the same that lingers in between the rustles of autumn leaves,
filling the air with a longing to avoid being forgotten.
Twilight is the last burning ember of a funeral pyre,
summoning the ash of the dark and starless night to take over,
only to be later scraped away to welcome a new day’s sunshine
like a phoenix rising from every ashy mistake it wants to leave behind.
Twilight is a bridge, the evening sky a metamorphosis,
it is every shade of gray in between the binaries of day and night,
and yet it is nothing more than a faint cry in the dark,
a footprint in the sand
swept away by a gust of wind,
because what is twilight, if not a time zone in itself,
a moment as much in the present as in the past,
a beginning of an end.