Afterglow

There usually isn’t anything left after the sun sets over the last bit of ocean.

We’re used to the color washing out, black and white replacing the saturation and life of the day.

A fiery hand grabs the last of the ocean green and drags it over the horizon, forcing along with it all the pinks and oranges of the sky.

It's always a process though isn’t it? The slow drudge over the shoreline? They could never snap out life, flicking in and out like a light switch. It has to be slow. The pace of change is so viscous that you can’t even tell that the world no longer fits into your previous definition.

Over time the length gets shorter. Chiseled away by the time spent busying yourself. The tedium of life awaits and you give no time to the impossibly stubborn constant of planetary movement.

Your eyes only flit upwards to see the moon above you. Light is tangible, and feels like a sheer blue fabric. The night has ended, and you’ll only have enough time to recognize that color is no longer drained.

Keep moving.