69.In the Shadow of What Sinks

The mirror bends, not like light, but darker,

a fold of something between breath and thought—

or was it the space beneath thought, unsaid,

caught in the cracks of a silence

that remembers nothing but the weight of forgetting?

A hand—no, less than a hand—reaches

for the skin that never felt the touch,

but the skin folds inward, not soft, not hard,

just turning, always turning away from itself.

What was taken? No—nothing was ever there.

And in the curve of a breath held too long,

the world bends, not forward, not back,

but inward, slipping beneath the weight

of its own light, a weight that whispers,

but the whisper is hollow, caught between echoes

that never spoke, that never dared to sound.

Was it heavy? Or was the weight lighter

than the absence of sound, sinking through itself?

The sky bends, or was it the ground

that lifted, folding beneath the feet

that never stood, but still trembled

in the space where standing once meant nothing?

Do you hear it now, the hum beneath the silence,

where the air breaks but never breathes,

caught in the fold of its own forgetting?

Not a word, not a sound, but something

less than both, the weight of breathless thought

pressed thin beneath the skin of air, breaking.

Who stood here? No one, for there was no ground.

Only the shape of ground, bending beneath the press

of feet that never came, hands that never rose,

and the light that trembled but never dared to fall.

There was a door, wasn't there? But it didn't open.

No—there was never a door,

just the thought of a door,

and behind it, nothing but the fold of air

that forgot how to turn,

how to slip between the cracks of its own weight.

And the hands—were they reaching?

No—just the thought of hands, pressed hard,

but soft as ash, folding into the hollow

where skin breaks without breaking,

where silence curls inward and waits,

but waiting forgets its own name.

Was it time that bent? Or did the clock fall away

before the hour could reach the minute?

No, the hands never turned,

and the face of the clock fell inward,

cracked beneath the weight of an hour

that never struck, yet always hummed,

hummed louder than silence,

until the silence forgot how to hum.

There was light once, wasn't there?

But it didn't shine, didn't burn—

only curled beneath the shadow

that forgot how to fall,

slipping, always slipping into itself,

until even the light became less than its own shadow.

Do you feel it now? No—

not the weight, not the falling,

but the curve of something smaller than breath,

sinking beneath the skin of air,

beneath the fold of time where hours bend

but never meet, where clocks fall but never strike.

And the hands—they press, don't they?

But not against anything.

Only the shape of a wall that never stood,

only the space where ground should have been,

but wasn't, not ever, not now,

just the fold of feet that forgot how to stand.

Was it real? Or was the thought of it too thin to hold?

And the sky, did it fall? No—

it bent, but the bend was too shallow,

and the fall never came.

Only the tremble, only the curve of air

that forgot how to lift itself above the ground

that wasn't there.

I tried to rise, didn't I? But the rise fell,

fell inward before the breath could lift.

And the light—what light? No,

there was no light, just the memory of light,

folding into the dark that never burned,

but still felt the heat of something not there.

The hands—did they press?

No, only the thought of hands,

slipping, always slipping into the cracks

where silence once held weight,

but now hums only in the absence of sound.

And now, beneath the shadow of what sinks,

the breath falls, not heavy, not light,

just thin, like air forgetting how to breathe,

forgetting how to rise,

forgetting how to fall.