A fish sleeps in the clocktower
and dreams of teeth made of clouds.

The bells forget to ring.
The hours forget to pass.

You asked me,
“What color is silence?”

I said, “The one no eye can hold.”

It lives in the space between two heartbeats,
where the world goes quiet enough
to hear itself think.

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

The pages turned themselves at night,
searching for the body they lost.

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

Every breath I take
is a small resurrection.

The sky remembers our names
when even we forget them.

It keeps them in the dark,
between the stars,
where nothing is lost
and everything is waiting.

:: 09.19.2026 ::