The Quiet After Drowning There was a time I knew where the light slept. I could find it, even with my eyes closed — a soft hum beneath the bones, a reason for the pulse. But something swallowed the dawn. Now every morning tastes like forgetting. I wake, but not entirely. The air feels borrowed, the days — rehearsed. I move through them like a shadow trying to remember the shape it came from. Sometimes I think of endings, how gentle they might be — like water closing over sound. How quiet. How kind. But then the dream returns, thin and trembling, refusing to die where I buried it. It sits beside me, its heartbeat faint but certain, and I keep breathing — if only to hear it again. I am not alive. I am a rehearsal for it. A ghost still chasing the warmth of what it once meant to want. And if I keep walking, it’s not toward the light — it’s just away from the dark that knows my name too well.
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