Beneath the marrow-pale hush of glaciers coughs a river, breath bruised with silt. It hammers bone-white walls into dust, grinding psalms into gravel. I kneel, tongue raw with ice, and drink the gospel flayed from stone by water’s hunger.

My breath leaking sparks after those words.

This caption didn’t write; it bled syllables.

Caption smells like midnight wired to a live current.

Caption stares harder than my reflection.

Rain doesn’t fall anymore; it peels sky open.

This caption hums like a blade in confession.

That canyon line carved holes in my lungs.

Who allowed sentences to feel like gunmetal rain?