Maybe I Do Have a Problem with the Evenings

Maybe it’s the way the light fades slow, like someone leaving without saying goodbye. Or how the silence grows too loud when no one’s left to lie to but myself. The coffee’s cold, untouched again, I poured it just to feel like I exist. My shadow stretches longer than my reach, and I wonder if I’m shrinking into it. Evenings ask questions I spend all day avoiding. They press their weight on my chest and whisper names I swore I'd forget. Maybe I do have a problem with the evenings. They know too much. They sit beside me like old regrets and never blink. I scroll past everyone’s perfect lives like ghosts I don’t believe in anymore. A hundred smiles I can’t feel, a thousand words that don’t mean me. The lamp hums like it's trying to comfort me but even the light looks tired now. Curtains hang like judgment, soft and still, but always watching. I light a cigarette I don’t smoke just to see something burn. Flames don’t ask why, they just destroy beautifully. I talk to the walls when I’m brave enough, but they answer in echoes that sound too much like truth. It’s always truth that hurts quietly. Maybe I’m just lonely. Or maybe the dark is honest in a way the morning never is. Maybe that’s the real problem. Maybe I do have a problem with the evenings. Or maybe the evenings just know how to find the broken parts I hide during the day.