nox — an ode to my favorite color and favorite time of being

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it arrives not like a storm,

but like breath on glass.

a hush before the sky forgets itself —

that bruised shade of blue,

just before it slips into black.

they call it dusk.

they call it evening.

but they are wrong.

it is nox —

and no language has ever held it right.

you don’t hear it coming.

you feel it peeling you open.

one rib at a time,

with hands softer than memory.

nox doesn’t beg for your attention.

it waits.

it learns your weight on floorboards,

your heartbeat when the door doesn’t open,

your exact temperature when you lie to yourself.

it slips beneath your skin like smoke,

coiling into the hollow parts,

where no one ever looked long enough to ask.

where sweetness went to rot.

people think darkness is absence.

nox is a presence.

a velvet intelligence.

it sees without eyes.

it listens without mercy.

you once prayed to be gentle.

now you pray for nothing at all.

because nox has taught you silence —

the kind that cradles and devours.

the kind that names you without speaking.

it doesn’t love you.

it doesn’t need to.

it belongs to you.

always has.

and so you sit

in that blue so deep it could drown a god,

not mourning,

not yearning,

only breathing,

barely.

you‘re not waiting for dawn.

dawn is for the innocent.

you were claimed by something older.

you are no longer the girl with light in her palms.

you are the cathedral.

the ash.

the elegy in motion.

you are what nox made.

— Lux