Some nights, the air hums like a wire under tension,
and memory tastes metallic.
You light another thought like a match,
watch it flare,
then drop it before it burns your fingers.
Names shift like constellations
you’ve learned not to chase them.
Meaning is a slow current,
dragging fragments of what once was
into something that almost holds.
The sea in you keeps time,
not by waves, but by what it refuses to return.
A hull, a voice, a promise left open-ended.
You measure survival in static and breath.
There’s no anthem in your resilience,
just the click of rebuilding
a rhythm you don’t explain anymore.
Steel cools in silence.
Fire doesn’t ask permission.
You’ve stopped naming what hurts.
You’re shaping it instead.
