Apertures

The moss doesn't ask permission, just widens its small grammar against the concrete lip— green syllables accumulating in the vocabulary of slow time.

Light breaks through old bottle glass three seasons into the earth. Each dawn it rewrites the shadow, a different story of what we buried, where we buried anything at all.

I've learned to live inside your pauses— the breath before yes, the small silence after why. This is how I made myself unmissable, difficult to lose.

What survives we never chose to keep. The garden is an archive of the chimney. The birds remember a forest. The echo knows what it was shaped by.