If I hide them in the lining, the last left will be the burnt ashes. The moss glows in the twilight and I built a fire; it filled up the room. I'm not quite sure who I am, but I like it.
Lights come on and off in the early night, and I forget what my hands look like. But there's still a silence when forgetfulness blossoms. Quiet the hum too, turn it off, and lie down. Close the windows, breathe in a deep breath, and throw them open again.
I left the light on because you taught me to fear the dark. And in the dark I could not quite tell who you were or who I was.