The flood comes unbidden,

a tidal wave from the deepest well,

drenching the silence.

Air shatters in jagged gasps,

the chest heaving,

a bellows pumping something unseen,

something aching and unnamable.

Salt blooms on trembling lips,

a bitter tide that tastes of loss

without a story to tell.

The world warps,

its edges softened,

blurred by the storm within.

It is not grief,

not joy,

not even sorrow—

just the body,

overflowing.

Hands clutch at nothing,

seeking purchase,

seeking reason,

as if the rush might explain itself

if only it could speak.

But it doesn’t speak.

It pours,

and pours,

and pours—

until the well is empty

and silence pools again.