When the sun sinks low,
and the world dissolves into its own dark,
does the shadow mourn the light,
its purpose stolen by the stars?
Or does it slip away unseen,
folding itself into corners
only the forgotten can reach?
Does it dream of being whole—
not the absence of something
but something itself,
a figure unbound
from the body it mimics?
When dawn stretches its golden fingers,
does the shadow flinch,
or does it rise in quiet obedience,
grateful for another day of following,
of existing only as a reflection
of what it can never become?
And when no one is watching,
does the shadow step ahead
just once,
to feel what it’s like
to be?
What is such a formless thing to do?
