The Geometry of Stillness

City pulse: A fever of steel and glass.
I carry it like a bruise beneath my collarbone.
Then, the lake opens its throat.
Blue swallowing grey.
My skin drinks the sun—each drop a memory of what I lost in the crowd.
The water doesn't ask for my name; it only holds my weight.
I am a single dot dancing on the surface of a dream.
Healing is not a destination. It is this: the way the wood creaks beneath me, and how your ghost still lingers in the salt-air kiss.

Editor: The Nameless Poet