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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