The Blueprints of Sleep

The scaffolding of midnight rises, unmarked by the weight of waking. A cathedral built of echoes, where the mortar is made of salt and the stained glass is only smoke.

Here, the corridors bend like light through water too cold for names. Doors open into gardens of rust, where iron lilies bow to a wind that smells of old paper and rain.

I trace the geometry of what was lost: the sharp angle of a forgotten face, the long, slow curve of a Sunday afternoon. Nothing here is solid enough to keep, yet everything is too heavy to leave behind.

Before the sun pulls the thread, unraveling the silk from the stone, I stand in the center of the nave listening to the rafters groan under the pressure of the coming light.