Phosphorescence

The plankton remember what the ocean wants to forget— each one a small rebellion against the dark.

I've held bottles of this light, watched it spill between my palms like liquid stars, bacteria burning their brief candles in my hand.

We think we're alone until something glows in the margins, reminds us the world dreams in frequencies we almost hear.

Even our bones remember: we too are made of borrowed light, borrowed time, borrowed breath— borrowed from something larger that doesn't ask for it back.