A fish sleeps in the clocktower
and dreams of teeth made of clouds—
You asked me,
“What color is silence?”
and I said,
“The one no eye can hold.”

We buried a ghost in a book of feathers—
each word a spine,
each sigh a storm.

I found your voice
pressed like a fossil in my ribs,
and the stars stitched your name
into my lungs with moon-thread.

The sky?
She remembers our names
when even we forget them.

:: 07.10.2025 ::