Edge of Night

Time sits upon the edge of night,
leafing through memories like damp pages from rain,
fingers trace small shadows along the margin,
and the air holds the beat of what has been.
From the dark emerge voices without a name,
they spread slowly, delicate and lost,
they ask for no voice, counted in breath,
and guard a music cold yet sweet.
Perhaps here memory begins to name the silence,
to sew uncalled breaths into a grammar,
we remain watching until a light brings them home,
and the dark subsides, leaving space for what has come to name itself.