Zebra Seeking Spoons

The glimmers used to find me—

small, bright things

tucked into ordinary corners:

sunlight on the wall,

a laugh that didn’t hurt,

a moment where my body

felt almost like home.

But lately,

the days have folded in on themselves—

one crash

bleeding into the next,

time marked not by clocks

but by what I cannot do.

The light feels farther now.

Dimmer.

Like it’s happening

in another life

I almost remember.

I reach for it anyway.

Even here—

in the heaviness,

in the ache that settles deep

and refuses to loosen—

I keep a quiet place open

inside me.

A space where a glimmer

might land.

Because I know

they are not gone,

only waiting—

on the other side

of this long stretch

of storm.

And hope,

though thinner now,

still threads through me

like something stubborn,

something soft but unbreakable.

So I hold on.

Not to certainty—

but to the memory

of light.

And the quiet belief

that somewhere,

just ahead,

something small and golden

is already on its way

back to me.