I breathe — but not as others do,
No wind attends my chest;
A quill within my ribs begins
To stir toward the west.

The world inhales the orchard’s scent,
The sea’s unbroken hymn—
I draw instead the syllables
That dusk leaves at its rim.

Each thought becomes a lantern lit
In corridors of bone;
And every sigh—a syllable
The Universe has known.

She whispered once, “We live alike,
With Ink—for Air—we two.”
I answered, “Yes—our lungs are doves
That write instead of flew.”

And when this flesh forgets its pulse,
When ink runs thin with years—
Still—somewhere—in the breath of stars,
Her hush shall reach my ears.

:: 11.07.2025 ::