It's Still Life

Her Ink Bleeds (microdosing fiction in 50µg)

Thunder never needs
to shout,
to linger.
Some words roll low
for days,

lodged
and scrolled between your
ribs and lung,
until even your breath

tastes of copper.
The Old One knew this —
she’d spent a lifetime
collecting echoes
in inkwells
made of hollowed
bones.