Evening things

Posted on a night that didn’t ask for much, and maybe that’s what made it kind.

tonight feels like warm laundry.
like quiet dishes drying on the rack.
like background music that no one notices
but your soul somehow dances to.

i didn’t do anything big today.
i didn’t fix the world or figure myself out.
but i made rice perfectly.
and replied to a message
i had been ignoring out of fear.
and that has to count for something, right?

there’s something about evenings like this —
when the sky is more bruise than flame,
and even the moon looks a little tired.
like she’s just trying to get through her shift
without crying in the break room of the galaxy.

i keep thinking i need to be more.
louder. braver. shinier.
but maybe tonight,
being soft and here and a little wrinkled
is enough.

and if no one claps for me,
i’ll still fold my blanket gently,
kiss the day on its forehead,
and whisper:
we tried, didn’t we?
and that’s gotta mean something.