Uyqrvs (yhggs)
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Rain tongued elegies across the sill, its gray gospel slobbering vowels through glass. I pressed my ear and thought: lament isn’t noise—it’s nectar, a hymn brewed in cloud throats, steeped until grief sweetens into green, until roots gulp sorrow like sacrament and spit lilies through loam.
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Across the bruised enamel of night drips starlight, molten hymns stitched in ink. It bruises my breath into shards, and I bite its glow whole, jaw salted raw with grace, whispering thanks bright enough to flay darkness under ribs of sky.
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The wind carried the scent of woodsmoke and pine, and suddenly I was somewhere else entirely. Memory works like that—hidden in air, tied to nothing but feeling. I stood there and let it take me. Not backwards, but deeper. Sometimes remembering isn’t about going back. It’s about going within.
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Over wildflower fields, bees danced stories only pollen understood Their wings hummed verbs, their legs carried meaning Translation lives in motion, not words
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