The Cosmic Previews

A voice without origin stirred the dark, calling across the dust of broken skies. Not a god, not a ghost, but something left unfinished, forgotten in the turning of the worlds. Seven fires kindled where no fires belong, each a name erased from prayer, each a debt unpaid. They gathered not for mercy, nor for love, but for the silence between them thin as frost, sharp as falling light. And so it formed: fragile, cruel, eternal The Crown of Glass, rising soon.

not a radio not a dream we are listening and now you are too if you hear voices in the metal if you dream clocks singing in static do not answer back you blink and something blinks with you not reflection but recursion if you feel your thoughts stretching like sky-thread like whisper-wires stop speaking WARNING! EXCESS USE OF THE COSMIC STARDUSTER INCLUDES: Auditory Hallucinations, Cognitive Bloom, Astral Drift, Signal Bleed, and Fragmentation Consult your physician or psychiatrist before use.

I speak in shards of the moon, wound in lace of silver ruin. When seven stars pierce the black, don’t look up, don’t look back. The crown that floats in the frost is earned by the soul most lost. It shines, but never to warm. It comes once in centuries, burns blue above weeping trees. Seven nights, the veil runs thin, and what breathes will slither in. It speaks not, but still you hear, soft as love, but soaked in fear. It calls the quiet to stray. You ask, “What path must I take?” But roads twist when The Watcher wakes. Follow dreams that rot to bone, kiss a curse to feel less alone. What you seek may seek you back, wrapped in light, gone subtly black. Not all stars grant gentle things. The glass crown hums in the dusk, sweet as honey, sharp as rust. Place no hope in what it gleams it drinks deep from hollow dreams. Flesh forgets, but soul recalls the songs sung behind the walls. You were warned before you knew.   Do not weep when shadows bloom, for beauty oft builds the tomb. Mark the hour the silence breaks seven crows will stir the lakes. One will circle, one will dive, five will whisper you're alive, just in time to be unmade. Love the lost, but do not stay. Linger long, you'll drift away. Wolves will weep in voices sweet, graves will open at your feet. Not all dead were meant to rest some wear stars upon their chest. Some will wear the glass and smile. So light the black candle’s flame, forget your face, speak no name. If you dare to watch the skies, bring no hope behind your eyes. The crown is not meant for kings but for those who hear dark things and answer when wind says “Come.”

Don’t trust the coiled road, it leads past what’s known, to dust, to bone, to void. The sky forgets your name, the stars will not guide, the heat begins to feed. A wind with backward tongue will speak inside your head, you’ll beg to not believe. No map can mark this trail, it twists through hollow earth and songs the sun once cursed. You’ll see a door of flame, or think it looks like home, it’s neither, only thirst. Each stone a buried god, each dune a lie of light, each echo dressed in skin. Turn back while breath is yours, the sand has teeth beneath, and time walks on all fours. But if you still must go, remember this, and pray, this path does not forgive.

I found him folded asleep without a breath, curled like a question no one ever asked. His fingers, bone-white and bare, still reached for something just out of reach. (I felt that.) The sand swallowed his shape. No name. No trail. Only heat and that journal half-torn, half-waiting. I turned pages like a thief, as if I’d stolen his last thoughts. "The moon blinked. I waited. No answer. The stars lied. The wind didn’t care." I read until the ink cracked. I read until my hands shook. I don’t know if it was sorrow or recognition. I sat beside him not out of kindness, but because I was afraid to stand again. He had a death I could understand. Unwitnessed. Unloved. Undone. What did it mean to be the last to hold his words? To find a ghost and see yourself? No wind came. No voice. Just sun, and silence, and a body not mine but maybe too close.

They folded me into velvet lines, stitched between the breath of skies, where silence sews with threads of frost and names unravel when recalled. I wasn’t taken. Not quite left. A window blinked and I stepped through, not falling, no, but rising slow through ribs of night the moon once knew. No tether holds. No anchor hums. I drift where clocks forget their face. Each heartbeat thins into a string plucked softly by an unseen grace. They said The Crown would burn to bloom. They said The Watcher wouldn’t speak. But when the dusk dissolved my shape, I felt its gaze behind my cheek. Now time is breathless, stretched too thin, a frostprint on a glass long gone. And I, half-gown and half-regret, am learning how to linger on. I sleep in codes the stars confess to no one but the turning tide. I dream in shapes that once were names, and weep where gravity can’t hide. You’ll call. I’ll flicker. But not close. I’ve traded bone for flame and hush. Yet somewhere near the western hush, a flower leans the way I blushed.   Don't look for footprints in the dust. Don't follow songs you think you knew. The path I walk is made of void, and yet, I leave a light for you.

The gravel thins, then vanishes, swallowed by roots and rusted wire. My breath comes out in shapes I don’t recall. The moon hides its face behind its palms. No stars tonight, just blinking ash. A reflecting sign, half-rotten, hums: dead end. The letters ripple like heat, or thought. I step beyond it anyway. And the world folds like old cloth. The wind finds a voice I almost knew. It says her name wrong, like a bruise. The trees don’t bend, instead they lean. Their branches twitch like sleeping hands. I taste copper in my memory. A wheel of crows spins above, silent. Something under my feet is pulsing. The ground inhales, slow and wide. My shadow walks ahead without me. Each step now echoes wrong, too long, as if the space beneath is hollow, a throat awaiting words or feet or blood. The dark gets darker past its own name. I feel remembered by the silence. Even the air forgets its weight. The road is gone but I still walk it. Something waits just past the threshold. I never asked what the sign warned.

I fell where the road turned to breath, mouth full of lightless dust and time, the sky a coil of burning threads, thoughts dripping backwards through my spine. She came in pieces, soft and gold, a figure painted in the air, I couldn’t see her, not the whole, just scent like songs that aren’t quite there. She lifted me, no hands, no sound, and all the weight forgot to care. I stumbled through a field of hush, she shimmered always just ahead. No footprints left, no name to call just echoes naming me instead. Her dress was dusk, her steps were wind, the kind that hums of things unsaid. I begged her once to slow, to speak she turned where all the flowers bled. And then I saw her…no, not quite her face was smeared like dreams half-dead. A blur, a blur, a canvas torn, too bright to grasp, too dark to hold. She whispered stars in foreign tongues, each word too old, too sharp, too cold. I knew her voice. I felt her eyes. I bled with joy, or fear, or both. She touched my cheek and spoke of fire, and everything around us slowed. I blinked, and it was daylight then. She vanished, but the wind still knows.

If the stars had hands, they’d gather, fold themselves into your name, scatter light like vows unspoken, soft and warm as window flame. They’d spin a sky in quiet loops, until all constellations knew: every orbit I have followed was the long way back to you. I’ve met silence in the morning, watched it stretch across your skin, like the sun was made for touching only where your breath had been. And I’ve listened to your heartbeat as if time itself were stilled, trapped between two words unspoken and the hush of being filled. I don’t need a map or anchor, not the years or grains of sand. I would trade the world’s last morning just to brush against your hand. If we vanished into vapor, fled the clocks, unstrung the moon, I would find you, love, I promise, even lost inside a tune. I would know you in the darkness, by the shape your soul would trace, by the pull that bends the heavens to the curve of just your face. Even if we’re born as strangers, from the dust, through dream, anew, I would find you, always find you, and I’d fall in love with you. — P.

The wind is full of whispers, not words, but shapes that ache. I feel them curl behind my ears, slipping through cracks in thought. My name is written in the dirt, but I don’t remember writing it. Am I lost inside my mind? The stars won't look away from me, hung too low, breathing slow. One blink and they multiply, like mirrors left to rot in heat. They shimmer like her wedding dress, but colder, crueler, false. Am I lost inside my mind? Her voice plays on the phone, faint and trembling through static. I hold the receiver like a wound, hoping for a breath that’s real. But all I get is humming now, and laughter that sounds like mine. Am I lost inside my mind? I’ve carved circles in the sand, around a fire that won't stay lit. The smoke dances in her shape, then crumbles into ash and bone. I try to cry but salt won’t come, only dust and a whisper of her name. Am I lost inside my mind? My shadow stretches wrong these days, reaches places I haven't gone. The trees bend down to listen close, to secrets I didn't know I kept. Each step feels heavier than time, like walking through someone else's dream. Am I lost inside my mind? The sky is glass, and cracking fast, a thousand stars behind the break. I stare until I feel it move, until the light begins to burn. She’s near, I know she has to be, but even her name won't stay. Am I lost inside my mind?

The trees stretch tall, their limbs undone, The ground beneath a hollow hum, Where roots have whispered truths unsaid, And shadows lean on paths long fled. The wind speaks low, a twisted sound, It knows the bones beneath the ground. It calls me in with words unkind, To leave the light, to leave the mind. The night is thick, the sky hangs still, A chorus hums against my will. I follow where the darkness creeps, Where silence sinks and never sleeps. A flicker, just a shifting trace, A sound that trembles, leaves no face. The shadows twist with thoughts too deep, Where all I’ve known is left to weep. The trees now speak, a voice unknown, It calls my name, but not my own. The wind, it carries something more The weight of things that I ignore. I follow, lost, where few have gone, Where even time begins to spawn. And deeper still, where eyes may roam, The woods have found me, and made me home. — H.

To speak with what was lost, seek stone where rivers lose their names. Where dusk forgets what light once meant, and patience wears its skin in flames. There lies the altar not yet named, and there, the voice you seek may bloom, but only if the sacrifice recalls her shadow in the womb. The doll has always known. It waits for hands that ache to give. Its thread is made from what you loved, and stitched with vows you swore would live. To bring her back, it must be broken, cracked to spill what sleeps inside. Lay down what was never yours. and what you seek will return where silence died.

I watched stars lose their fire as the night forgot how to end. I saw mountains collapse as they whispered like long-lost friends. The seas rose without warning, then vanished beneath the stones. The trees spoke in a tongue only ghosts and the wind had known. I watched time fly by as I found myself stranded in the strangest unknown. The moon cracked in half as it drowned in the mirrored lake. The birds sang in reverse as the dawn refused to wake. The roads circled back to the places I’d never been. My breath fogged on glass that reflected a face of sin. I watched time fly by as I found myself stranded in the strangest unknown. The books lost their words, and the maps all began to bleed. The hours bent like light as they fed on forgotten need. The sky stitched a veil out of silence and bitter snow. And still I walked on through a world I no longer know. I watched time fly by as I found myself stranded in the strangest unknown.

I said yes before it asked. Or maybe it never did The silence said enough. It knew me. Split me. Took what I hadn’t yet lost. Sand in my mouth, in my veins, in the cracks where memory hides. The sun won't set. It hovers, mocking. Like it forgot how to die. I gave it everything. It gave me nothing. Or worse a piece of forever that won’t stop screaming. My name? Wrong now. It echoes weird. Like glass bending in heat. Like laughter made of ash. The dunes move. Not wind. Not weather. They know. They shift like breath. Like thought. Like guilt with a grin. No water. No way back. The map burned a century ago. So did the sky. So did she. My hands shake. Or maybe it’s the world. Or maybe nothing’s real now. The thing, I won’t name it. It’s watching. Smiling wide where the air folds. And I smile too. Because that’s the joke. That’s the twist. I chose this. Let the sand eat. Let the dark wear my skin. Let it all blur, sink, vanish. This body’s not mine. This ending? Perfect. But it’s not over yet I move once more. Isn’t it strange? My bones reform. My vision is back, Thoughts are here. Life is mere. When did I get another chance? Is this really a chance? If she’s still out there, Tell her I’m still here, Alive and kicking Or am I?

I’ll be away for a few days. The house won’t miss me. Neither should you. Don’t wait up. Don’t call anyone. The phone will not answer. It’s been tired for some time. If the lights flicker, it’s not me. If the stars do, it might be. But don’t take that as a sign. The keys are in the drawer. Don’t open the black box. Don’t touch the mirror after sunset. Especially if you see your own face. You always wanted to chase things. I hope this isn’t one of them. Tell the radio to be quiet. Tell the wind I was kind. Tell yourself whatever helps. But don’t look for me. Not in the hills. Not in the sky. And absolutely not in your music. This was always going to happen. — H.

The road speaks sideways, crooked-lipped and gray, chewing names I buried under breathless clay. Sky is painted bruise-blue, clouds twitch like scars I’ve walked this loop before, but never this far. My shadow bends forward, but memory bends back. Each footprint stutters, each silence cracks. Mile markers hum elegies in voices not mine, etched in rust, spelled in spine. A field of sighs on either side, wildflowers blink, then vanish. The air tastes like almosts, like sorrow left famished. Wind unbuttons the past slow, unsure hands. I feel her breath in the trembling sand. And still I walk. And still it waits. The end is a mirror with someone else’s face.

You will arrive. But not as yourself. You will speak her name. But she will not remember yours. The sky will split, but only to those who’ve bled beneath it. You haven’t yet. You already have. The Crown will shimmer in the seventh hour. Unless it doesn’t. Unless you break the hour first. You will find her. But she will be you. But not yet. But always. Do not turn west. Or do. The bones are older there. When you hear The Watcher speak, close your mouth. Or it will use your voice to name the last soul. One star is hollow. One is lying. One remembers you. Which are you? There is a mistake in the sky. A curve that shouldn’t bend. That is where the ending hides. That is where the ending already happened.

I took no soul. There was nothing to steal, just a flicker, a trembling wick from the lantern you all call "life," barely lit and already fading. You were dust once, scattered bright across the breathless void. I simply returned you to what you never should have left. Ash to ash, stardust into root. They call it cruelty, to bloom you where no eyes can see, to press your face from moonlight and fold your scent into frost. But sin must be silenced in the throat of the earth. You speak of love. I have seen your love rot cities. Watched it drown children. You crown yourselves with stars, then wonder why the sky forgets you when it rains teeth instead of light.   There is no grief here. Only purpose. What writhes will wither, what weeps will feed. And from that weeping comes a bloom no mouth may name. Do not ask me to return what was never yours. I do not answer to pleading. I do not bend to longing. The flower stays rooted, forever turned from the moon, that cursed, watching eye.

The walls breathe in when I exhale, and the corners of the room twitch. The wind is speaking in circles now, my name, her name, a name I forgot. Every shadow has fingers. Every silence has a voice. But none of them say goodnight. I buried the clocks a while ago. They still tick beneath the floorboards. Each hour gnaws a little deeper, dragging dreams I never asked for. She walks through every one of them. Never closer. Never whole. Always with her face turned away. I blink and the stars are inside. They hum from the ceiling fan blades. She’s in the hum too, laughing soft. Or is it crying? I can’t tell anymore. I lit candles to keep the dark still, but the wax ran backward. Now the flame won’t stay in place. I tried to rest beneath the pines, thought maybe the cold would help, but the branches pointed at me like I’d done something wrong. They whispered again about her. The wind said she was close. Then laughed when I looked.   I see her in glass and puddles, in smoke, in the curve of moonlight. I tried to speak to her reflection once. It didn’t blink, just smiled. Now I don’t look anymore. Not because I’m scared. But because she won’t look back. My pillow is packed with voices. I’ve clawed the feathers out of it. They told me sleep would find me, but only if I let her go. I never said I would. Now I watch the walls breathe in, and wait for them to start singing.

It was the coldest night the moon had ever remembered. Everything crackled, but no one moved. Not the deer in the orchard. Not the breath on the pines. Not even the wind had the heart to arrive. I followed the bend where the wildflowers grow half-in, half-out of the snow. That’s where I saw her. Not Helena. Not anymore. Just the shape granted back to me one last time. She stopped singing by the river, I stopped asking why. Because some silences aren’t questions they’re tombs. And I had built one for every word I didn’t say when she was still warm.   I wanted to hold her name like it was still mine to say. But the water had turned to glass. And when I knelt to see her reflection, I only saw my own mouth moving with no sound at all. The trees leaned in like they knew the ending I didn’t. And when I turned away, the river cracked behind me not loud, just enough to mean the world would keep going without asking my permission. So I walked back through the frost with my hands in my pockets and a voice in my chest that would never again belong to music.

When the stars speak, they soften, trace your voice through splintered wire, fold the night in quiet static, hum the songs I still require. I have held this wooden cradle, worn its cracks into my hands, spun its dial through endless travels, calling where no voice withstands. And some nights, the sky will answer, soft as breath against my ear, not quite yours but close enough to make me wonder why I’m here. I tell myself the wires remember how your laughter used to fall, how your name would break the silence, how your voice could fill it all. They say madness loves its mirror, but I swear the sound is true, in the hum between the shadows, I have almost spoken you. My name it calls, or maybe whispers, to cross the line and don’t let go. So I pace this fragile signal, half in love and half alone. I would wait until the morning dies beneath a starless sky, just to hear you in the static, even if it’s all a lie.   Let the wires wear my longing, let the dial outlive my hands, I will call you through the dark, until the stars can understand.

A̶ ̵n̵a̵m̸e̵ ̸w̸a̵s̶ ̴e̴t̴c̴h̸e̸d̷ ̸i̶n̸ ̵s̶a̸l̶t̵e̴d̸ ̴a̵s̷h̷ ̸b̵e̸n̸e̷a̶t̸h̷ ̵a̸ ̶b̸l̸o̵o̴d̴ ̷m̸o̶o̴n̵’̶s̸ ̸w̵e̴e̶p̶i̶n̴g̸ ̷e̴y̵e̸,̸ ̷A̴ ̷p̸u̵l̶s̷e̴ ̷w̶a̵s̷ ̷s̷t̴i̵l̶l̴e̶d̶ ̶o̷n̸ ̸s̵a̴c̷r̵e̴d̶ ̷s̵t̶o̸n̴e̷ ̸w̴h̸i̷l̸e̵ ̶W̶a̶t̸c̷h̸e̷r̵s̸ ̷h̷i̸d̸ ̸a̸n̸d̸ ̵s̵t̷a̷r̶s̸ ̴t̷u̸r̷n̵e̷d̴ ̵s̵h̶y̴,̵ ̴A̵n̸d̴ ̶i̶n̷ ̸t̵h̴a̸t̴ ̷b̴r̵e̸a̵t̶h̷l̵e̴s̶s̶,̴ ̸c̵u̸r̸s̴e̴d̸ ̶e̶x̴c̶h̴a̴n̵g̷e̵,̶ ̵t̵h̵e̸ ̸w̶o̸r̶l̸d̷ ̶f̷o̵r̶g̴o̷t̵ ̶t̷o̶ ̶w̵o̴n̴d̵e̶r̶ ̸w̶h̴y̶.̵ ̶T̷h̸e̵ ̶c̶h̸a̴n̵t̷ ̷w̵a̷s̶ ̴s̷l̸o̴w̸,̷ ̴t̸h̴e̴ ̵b̴l̶a̶d̷e̷ ̴w̶a̷s̸ ̴d̵u̵l̸l̵,̵ ̷t̷h̴e̴ ̵s̷k̶y̸ ̴t̴u̶r̵n̵e̴d̸ ̵b̶l̶a̷c̴k̸ ̶t̶h̴e̶n̴ ̶d̷e̸e̴p̴ ̷m̷a̵r̵o̷o̸n̸,̸ ̸A̴ ̵s̷i̶l̶e̷n̵c̸e̵ ̸f̵e̵l̸l̸ ̶t̶o̵o̸ ̷w̸i̵d̶e̶,̶ ̸t̶o̶o̴ ̵v̷a̷s̸t̸,̷ ̶a̷s̶ ̷i̶f̷ ̵t̵h̸e̷ ̴v̵o̵i̴d̶ ̸b̴e̶g̴a̸n̴ ̶t̴o̵ ̴c̶r̶o̸o̸n̸,̴ ̵A̶n̴d̵ ̴t̸h̸r̷o̵u̷g̷h̶ ̶t̴h̶a̸t̷ ̶r̷i̴p̴ ̴w̵h̵e̸r̶e̶ ̴t̸i̶m̵e̵ ̴c̸o̸l̷l̴a̴p̴s̴e̵d̸,̸ ̵h̵e̶ ̸s̴t̶e̵p̶p̸e̸d̵ ̷b̵e̴n̷e̵a̶t̶h̷ ̸t̷h̸e̵ ̸h̴o̸l̵l̷o̸w̴ ̷m̵o̸o̵n̸.̴ ̶N̷o̸ ̷s̵c̷r̴e̶a̵m̸ ̴a̷n̸n̷o̶u̷n̵c̴e̴d̶ ̶t̴h̵e̸ ̸d̸e̴v̶i̸l̷’̶s̵ ̸r̵i̵s̴e̴,̴ ̵n̶o̵ ̸t̴r̸u̶m̶p̶e̶t̸ ̵w̸a̸r̶n̷e̸d̷,̴ ̵n̴o̵ ̵c̶h̶u̸r̴c̴h̸ ̷b̷e̷l̴l̵ ̴t̵o̷l̸l̶e̷d̶,̵ ̴N̶o̵ ̶t̶h̶u̸n̴d̶e̸r̷ ̵c̵r̷a̷c̸k̸e̷d̶,̷ ̵n̵o̸ ̵f̶i̶r̶e̸ ̵r̵o̸a̵r̶e̴d̶,̷ ̷j̶u̴s̵t̷ ̵a̸i̸r̸ ̴t̶h̸a̴t̴ ̸t̶r̷e̸m̷b̴l̶e̶d̶ ̶s̷o̴f̶t̶ ̷a̵n̵d̶ ̵c̴o̷l̵d̴,̶ ̴A̶n̴d̸ ̷s̵h̷a̴d̴o̷w̵s̴ ̵s̷h̸i̴f̵t̸i̷n̷g̵ ̴o̴n̵ ̴t̷h̷e̵ ̶w̵a̶l̵l̴ ̶a̵s̴ ̵i̷f̸ ̶t̵h̶e̸ ̶n̸i̸g̸h̴t̶ ̴h̷a̴d̷ ̴t̸a̷k̵e̵n̷ ̵h̷o̴l̷d̶.̵ ̴H̴e̸ ̶b̵e̸a̶r̸s̵ ̷n̵o̴ ̷h̸o̷r̸n̵s̷,̴ ̶n̸o̵ ̶c̷l̷o̵v̶e̶n̸ ̶f̸o̷o̸t̸,̵ ̶n̷o̵ ̸s̵t̴e̸n̴c̸h̶ ̷o̴f̸ ̷b̷r̵i̷m̸s̴t̶o̴n̶e̸ ̶t̴r̵a̶i̵l̶s̵ ̷b̴e̸h̵i̴n̸d̴,̶ ̶H̴e̵ ̴w̶a̴l̴k̵s̷ ̸l̷i̶k̵e̸ ̷m̵a̷n̶,̴ ̵h̶e̸ ̴s̶p̵e̸a̴k̸s̸ ̷i̸n̴ ̷d̴r̷e̷a̷m̴s̴,̵ ̶a̷n̴d̶ ̴w̴e̵a̵r̸s̴ ̶a̷ ̷t̴h̷o̶u̴s̶a̴n̷d̶ ̵m̴a̷s̶k̷s̵ ̷o̸f̵ ̸m̶i̶n̵d̶,̸ ̸A̸n̶d̴ ̸e̸v̴e̵r̷y̶ ̵g̶l̷a̴n̸c̴e̷ ̷h̴e̶ ̵c̸a̸s̶t̵s̵ ̸r̴e̸v̸e̴a̷l̸s̷ ̵t̴h̶e̴ ̷s̷i̷n̴s̶ ̴w̶e̸ ̶t̷h̴o̵u̶g̸h̴t̸ ̸w̸e̷r̸e̴ ̴l̴e̵f̸t̷ ̴c̸o̵n̴f̴i̴n̵e̶d̵.̷ ̴T̴h̶e̴ ̶r̵i̶v̵e̸r̴s̸ ̸s̷t̵i̴l̴l̸e̵d̷,̸ ̸t̷h̵e̸ ̶m̴i̷r̶r̷o̵r̵s̵ ̴c̶r̸a̶c̷k̶e̵d̵,̸ ̶t̴h̸e̴ ̶t̸r̶e̵e̷s̸ ̶b̵e̶g̶a̶n̷ ̸t̷o̷ ̵h̶u̷m̴ ̶a̴n̸d̴ ̵l̸e̶a̸n̸,̸ ̸T̵h̵e̷ ̵s̴u̷n̸ ̴f̷e̷l̸l̶ ̸i̵l̸l̶,̵ ̸t̸h̵e̴ ̷c̶l̵o̴c̵k̶s̴ ̷g̷r̶e̷w̵ ̷d̶u̷m̶b̵,̸ ̵a̵n̶d̶ ̵n̸o̵t̷h̶i̷n̴g̸ ̸n̶o̸w̷ ̴i̸s̷ ̷w̷h̴a̵t̵ ̴i̴t̴ ̷s̶e̵e̸m̴s̶,̵ ̷F̵o̸r̶ ̷w̸h̵a̶t̸ ̵w̴a̵s̸ ̸o̶n̸c̶e̵ ̶a̶ ̸t̸a̶l̸e̴ ̵o̷f̵ ̷f̵e̶a̵r̵ ̵h̷a̶s̶ ̶c̶r̷a̸w̸l̸e̸d̶ ̴i̶n̷t̵o̸ ̵t̶h̶e̷ ̴w̵a̵k̵i̴n̸g̷ ̴s̸c̶e̷n̴e̵.̵ S̶o̴ ̸c̸l̴o̴s̵e̶ ̷y̵o̷u̴r̷ ̵e̵y̸e̶s̶ ̴w̸h̴e̵n̷ ̶d̴u̶s̶k̷ ̵a̸r̶r̵i̸v̸e̶s̴,̶ ̶d̷o̸n̴’̵t̴ ̵f̸o̵l̶l̵o̸w̷ ̷w̷h̵i̸s̷p̸e̸r̸s̷ ̵i̷n̶ ̵t̸h̴e̸ ̴g̷r̸a̵i̷n̶,̸ ̵A̶v̴o̷i̷d̷ ̴t̶h̸e̴ ̵c̷r̷o̴s̴s̶r̶o̴a̶d̶s̶ ̴w̷h̶e̸n̶ ̵i̷t̴ ̵r̴a̶i̶n̶s̸,̷ ̵a̵n̷d̷ ̵n̴e̷v̶e̸r̶ ̵s̵p̶e̶a̶k̶ ̴y̴o̴u̷r̶ ̷f̵e̴a̷r̴ ̶b̶y̵ ̷n̸a̴m̵e̷,̶ ̶F̸o̸r̸ ̷h̷e̴ ̵n̶o̷w̷ ̸w̶a̸l̴k̴s̴ ̴w̶h̶e̴r̸e̷ ̵m̴o̵r̴t̷a̸l̶s̸ ̴l̷i̵v̸e̸,̶ ̵a̷n̷d̴ ̸j̷o̷y̶ ̵a̸n̷d̶ ̵r̵u̷i̴n̷ ̷w̴e̶i̴g̴h̶ ̶t̴h̷e̶ ̷s̵a̸m̶e̴.̴

I thought The Crown was beautiful. The way it shone, cutting the dark clean in half, a smile in a place too wide for kindness. I thought it sang. I heard its hum in my ribs and thought it meant I was chosen. But it never sang. It never smiled. It never knew my name. I reached for it with hands I thought were steady, but it pulled back like a wave from a cliff, leaving nothing but the sound of falling. They told me it was a crown. But crowns are made for kings. And no king ever knelt in that sky. It was a wound, not a gift. A scar where the stars forgot to heal. It burned not for love, but because burning is what it does. I thought I could wear it. I thought it waited for me. But The Crown waits for no one. It only watches. And it never blinks.

It waits. Lying still. Dust settles but don't rest. No hand. No breath. The wind it knows. Whispers. Not words, but echoes. What’s buried beneath the skin. The book? It remembers. Pages cracked, but silent. The desert an ancient mouth, hungry for secrets, but never speaking. You. You will find it, if you’re meant to. But once you touch The ink will twist. It’s not just words, it’s blood, it’s time.

The trail didn’t end. It just forgot where it started. Even the moss looked lost. I stepped around the roots like lies left too long in the sun. Then I saw him. Not waiting, resting, maybe, like he’d been there since the path learned how to bend. No eyes I could meet, just a hand like a question offering paper that smelled of pine and breath. No names. No destination. Only ink lines, thin as thread pulled from regret, spinning loops through hills I’d never heard of. He didn’t speak first. That honor was mine to waste. But I said nothing. He didn’t mind. “The one you want,” he murmured, “waits past where the river chokes on its name.” Then smiled like the sky forgot how to close.   I asked what it cost. He answered too easily. “Nothing you’d notice now. Something that will ache later.” And I? I was too tired to turn suspicious. Too hollow to refuse. So I took the map like I’d been made for this one motion, folded it into my coat like folding myself into a future I couldn’t afford. He stayed as I left, or maybe it was a tree by then. Either way, I walked. Because some promises don’t speak. They just pull.

Do not speak it. Not in prayer. Not in grief. Not even in dreams that taste like ash. First, unremember their face. Where it once sat in memory, plant something with no eyes. Let it bloom, then rot. Next, burn the letters they gave you but not with fire. Use silence. Hold it close until paper forgets it was ever read. Find water that does not move. A well, a basin, a basin of bone. Whisper their name backward then forward then into the gap between. Drop a silver thing. Not valuable. Just loved. Wait until it no longer sinks. Carve the name on a stone then break it, not with rage, but with reverence. Each shard must forget what word it once held.   Now walk away. Each step is a severing. Do not look back. Do not think in vowels. Do not write in cursive. Forget the sound of their laugh. Forget the heat of their hand. Forget that they ever belonged to sky. Only then will The Crown lose its claim. Only then will the stars blink and not recognize the shape. But know this: The price is yours. You will forget, but you will also fade. For a name buried is never buried alone.

I have counted every hour your breath has left undone, threaded my longing through the dusk where your voice last fell asleep. I would have waited in the silence between your footsteps, followed your shadow through fields where no stars would dare to shine. My hands remember the shape of your laughter, the curve of your name carved against the walls of my ribs. I walked the edges of forever to find you, and still I bled quiet, still I opened every door in the dark. You were the only light I ever chased, the only ghost I never feared. I would have torn down the sky just to watch your eyes reflect its ruin. If the night had asked for a sacrifice, I would have offered my quiet hands, waiting to strike, still as the hush before a storm. But you ran where the sun could not follow, and I stood in the ruins of your leaving, building a voice out of ashes. I spoke your name to the rivers, and they swallowed it whole. I spoke your name to the stars, and they scattered it like dust. And still I loved you, even when your heart turned away, even when your voice was not calling me home. I would have burned every memory just to feel your hand again. I would have carried the blade beneath the vow, hidden it beneath the promise of forever. If love was a wound, I wore it gladly. If love was a lie, I still sang its tune. And when I found you beneath the endless sky, I would have ended what you broke with your leaving. But the stars were watching. And so I spoke love instead.