The air tangles in my nose,

thick with the wet earth’s breath,

a sweetness gone sour, then sweet again,

like memories caught mid-decay.

The wind bites sharp—

iron, pennies, stone splitting—

it clings to the back of my throat,

a taste not mine, but swallowed anyway.

Every step stirs ghosts—

pine needles crushed beneath,

their green whispers rising,

telling tales of rain-soaked forests

and the thousand lives of trees.

A gust drags the perfume of asphalt,

oily and raw,

as if the earth itself was peeled open,

its skin glistening, wounded.

It mingles with the salt of sweat,

a smell that moves,

like effort, like motion,

a pulse in the air.

Something rots in the distance,

a bloom too far gone,

its petals curling inward,

sweetness turning rancid.

I inhale,

and the world confesses,

its honest stories stitched into my breath,

each scent a tale I carry,

not knowing if it owns me,

or if I,

in some way,

belong to it.

The world spills itself into my eyes,

slivers of light bending,

shapes collapsing into shapes.

A streetlamp hums a pale halo,

its glow drowning in the rain,

fractured into a thousand trembling shards.

Shadows stretch long and thin,

grasping at corners where nothing hides.

They move when I don’t,

shifting like they know

secrets I’ve forgotten to ask.

Leaves glisten black,

slick skins of green turned to mirrors,

reflecting a sky heavy with its own weight.

The clouds hang low, swollen and bruised,

their edges bleeding faint silver

that doesn’t reach the ground.

I see my breath in short bursts,

a ghost that vanishes before I can claim it.

The world is a kaleidoscope of dim colors—

amber in the puddles,

blue in the horizon’s shiver,

a smear of crimson where the neon

blinks out of rhythm.

Faces press themselves into windows,

but they don’t look at me.

Eyes dart past,

through,

as if I’m a space between.

Or maybe I only imagined them.

The night folds itself around me,

a shifting, restless thing.

I watch it stretch and twist,

each movement too slow to catch,

but too fast to ignore.

I see everything,

and it feels like nothing at all.

The night hums low,

a deep, endless breath

caught between the ribs of the earth.

The rain is a thousand tiny hands,

drumming on leaves,

tapping on windows,

whispering secrets

I’ll never understand.

A car growls in the distance,

its tires hissing against the wet pavement,

then fading,

as if it never existed.

The sound unravels in the dark,

a thread pulled loose from the fabric of now.

The wind moves through the trees,

a voice too big to belong to anything living.

It moans, it laughs,

it calls my name in tones

I don’t recognize,

but feel in my chest.

Somewhere, a dog barks, sharp and hollow,

its echo chasing itself down empty streets.

And beneath it all,

a hum I can’t place—

like the earth turning,

or my own blood moving too fast.

My footsteps fall heavy,

then soft,

then lost entirely,

swallowed by the wet ground.

Every creak of my jacket,

every sigh of my breath

feels too loud,

as if the night is listening

and doesn’t approve.

I stop,

and the silence

isn’t silence at all.

It’s a symphony of small things—

the drip of water,

the hum of powerlines,

the static of rain.

I close my eyes

and hear it all unravel,

each sound

breaking open like a seed.

The night presses its weight against my skin,

thick and cold,

like a hand that doesn’t know

if it’s holding or pushing away.

Rain trails down my face in crooked lines,

its fingers cold,

its touch soft,

its weight heavier than it should be.

Each drop feels like a question

I can’t answer.

The wind pulls at me,

playful and cruel,

tugging at my hair,

my coat,

my resolve.

It slips through every crack,

carrying the kind of chill

that settles in the bones

and refuses to leave.

The ground shifts beneath me,

slick and uneven,

the wet grit of asphalt

pressing through the soles of my shoes,

reminding me I’m not floating,

not falling.

Just here.

My fingertips brush the rough bark of a tree,

its grooves deep and ancient,

its life vibrating under the surface.

I press harder,

as if I can hold onto it,

as if it will hold me back.

My hands bury themselves in my pockets,

warmth pooling there like a secret,

the only place the night can’t reach.

But even that heat feels stolen,

temporary.

Every touch is a conversation,

every texture a reminder.

The world presses itself against me,

cold and unrelenting,

and I let it.

There’s a strange comfort

in feeling so small.

The air tastes like metal,

sharp and bitter,

as if the rain has washed the rust

off the sky and let it settle

on my tongue.

Each breath is thick,

carrying the damp,

earthy tang of mud,

roots tangled in decay.

It fills my mouth,

raw and green,

the flavor of life and its opposite

woven into one.

The rain drips down my lips,

cool and faintly sweet,

like water stolen

from somewhere purer than here.

But it carries something else, too—

a faint acrid trace,

the ghost of something burned.

I bite the wind as it rushes past,

a fleeting cold,

brined with salt from roads,

or perhaps from old, distant oceans

that no longer exist.

My teeth catch the air’s weight,

its weightlessness,

and the taste of the night itself

settles on my tongue:

a mix of pine sap,

wet stone,

and something I can only call

emptiness.

I swallow it all,

the flavors of what is,

of what isn’t.

It sits heavy in my throat,

lingering,

the aftertaste of a world

too large to name.