How Light Forgets Us
written by: David Anson Lee
It began as a tremor in the field of sight:
a shimmer, a wavering film,
as if heat itself were leaking from my eyes.
Then color drained,
slowly, like tea through linen.
Edges blurred,
faces turned to smoke,
letters on the page dissolved into ghosts.
The doctors spoke in codes:
optic neuritis, demyelination,
as if language could solder
the bright wire between me and the world.
But I knew something ancient had broken:
a covenant between light and trust.
I moved through my room like a thief,
counting steps to the window,
learning the geography of loss.
The lamp hummed,
its glow a rumor.
My reflection was gone:
a trick of silver, now mute.
Fear had a pulse.
It nested behind my ribs
and whispered, you may never see again.
Yet when morning came,
I felt the warmth on my skin:
a soft, invisible hand,
and thought: perhaps the body remembers
what light has forgotten.
- How Light Forgets Us - October 11, 2025
