Water's Memory

The river forgets its name each time it reaches the sea— waves scatter like scattered letters, salt easing the edges of what was.

I've been drinking this thirst for months, waiting for a watershed that never comes. The sky holds its breath. The earth holds mine.

There's a sound beneath the silence, something moving through the stone like memory through old hands, patient, inevitable, eroding truth.

What remains is the shape of loss, the architecture of absence— a dry well, a cut flower, a song no one remembers.