—By now the daylight feels stretched thin, like a resource the world is trying to ration.
The sun arrives in fragments now,
small portions measured out with care,
slipping through the narrow hours
as though the sky were short on spare.
It pools in corners, almost shy,
a thin, reluctant winter glow.
You move your mug to chase it once,
but watch it fade
before you know.
It touches what it can, then leaves,
the rim of cups,
the silver sink,
the half-read book,
your lowered hand
still trembling from the morning’s drink.
This light is honest, nothing more,
it doesn’t warm,
it doesn’t stay.
It simply marks the things you love
before the cold
reclaims the day.
📜 Leftover Light – The Recipe
Ingredients:
- 1 half-cooled mug of coffee
- A small square of sunlight (fleeting)
- One quiet room that doesn’t mind dimming
Instructions:
Place your mug where the light lands and don’t expect it to linger. Sip only while the brightness still touches the cup. Notice which objects the light chooses; they will matter today. When the last ray slips away, finish the drink in the new shade.