
10 Followers
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.
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.
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.
Over wildflower fields, bees danced stories only pollen understood Their wings hummed verbs, their legs carried meaning Translation lives in motion, not words