You are a master of low frequency hums,
those vibrations that foretell fracture
long before the glass shatters.
I don’t need to open my eyes to know that
one heel is already silvered by the porch light,
tasting the gravel of the driveway
while your shadow sits beside me.
–
To know you is to breathe through a filter
expecting the particulate of ash
in a room you swore was empty.
–
I am a scholar of your sudden silences,
reading the warnings etched into the drywall
where you leaned but never settled.
The ink is thick. Iron-dark. Still warm.
Drying into a map of
everywhere you are about to go.
–
You are a structural impossibility
a bridge that refuses to touch either bank.
And I, the fool who tried to calibrate the wind,
bending my own geometry into unturnable corners,
Splintering, to hold a frame
that couldn’t even carry itself.
–
Contaminated. The filter has failed.
The air is thinning.
–
I will walk away
from catching ghosts by their throats.