Bird Do Not Sing in Caves

One morning, I will wake.

One morning, I will wake, and the sun will stammer at my elbows, flickering through me like a faulty signal. I will stand, and the floor will sigh beneath my feet—feet not my own, pale, waterlogged, bruised clean of memory.

Home. Or something like it.

I will drift through those rooms, rooms I have lost, rooms that have lost me. They will stretch deep, endless, wet. I will sink against the wall, pressing into it as if it might hold me up, and I will watch time unspool itself, spilling open a second life.

My lips will crack wide, my breath raw and reeking, my head tilting to catch the color of things I no longer name.

Somewhere, something settles. Heavy. Sealed. Forgotten.

Zeroes hum in the dark.

Greased. Hollow.

Goodnight.

Hello.