Night.
Shadows lean in.
Cold fingers find the keys.
The moon cuts the room in half
with a single pale edge.
One note, then another—
tears running the length of the glass.
Inside the wood,
laughter that once lived here
is still trying to get out.
One candle left.
It does not go out.
The night stays.
A black page
No one will finish.
Dust in the first light.
For three measures
the right hand forgets
the left.
A laugh dies
between the teeth.
|| 08.25.2026 ||
E.P. Robles | Poetry 