Let there be a forgetting—

of hands that ferried dust

as if grief were soil

and bodies, just biodegradable

confessions.
Let mouths open

like storm shutters in summer,

and instead of language,

let wind escape—

a gust of half-formed prayers,

echoes tossed from windowpanes

into a sky unready for mercy.
Time: a calendar of rust.

Hours bloom and wilt

on their own clock.

Flight requires no feathers now.

Weightlessness is learned

by those who carry nothing

But ash.
Once, a face paused before a pulse,

asked if it belonged to anyone.

The nod became a language

too wide for tongues—

A yes that couldn’t shrink.
They sat

through the retelling of rooms,

each breath painting mildew

on the wallpaper of memory.

Eventually, they asked to see it:

this house, this weathered ark

of longing and rot.
They returned—

dust on their knuckles,

silt in their footsteps.

Returned again

until absence forgot

How to depart.
They were always here—

in the loam of song,

in cassette reels looping grief

until the moon peeled itself

from dawn’s fingers.
Discomfort held like a ritual.

Eyes rimmed in sleep-debt,

a face glowing past exhaustion.

Not seeking rest—

but a sunset stubborn enough

to refuse ending,

a dusk long enough

to outlast goodbye.