It's Still Life

A quiet space between threads, where what is left unspoken is stitched into the fabric of silence.

Restless as a Second Skin (a synesthesia poem)

The night isn’t black.
It’s the texture
of unfinished coffee,
the sound of a clock
chewing its minutes.
Your bones hum
in the key of static,
your nerves taste like
aluminum foil.
And your thoughts—
they are the moon,
its light left on,
restless as a second skin.