EMBERS OF SMOKE

I touch an old sorrow and it exhales me —
a breath returning to the mouth that first spoke it.

The air smells of burnt mirrors,
of memories folded into the corners of light.

The world has grown factual, brittle;
it cracks when handled too carefully.
It believes only what bleeds in daylight,
and so the dark has gone feral —
it prowls the edges of reason,
dragging intuition by its silver hair.

Once, truth wore no armor of evidence.
It walked barefoot through the soul,
its feet leaving prints in water.
We trusted its silence as we trust sleep —
knowing we would wake with our hearts rearranged.

Now, I gather the embers of that vanished smoke,
cupping them like faint astonishments.
They whisper in no language,
only warmth —
a reminder that even the unseen
has bones.

:: 10.23.2025 ::