steam rises from frostbitten skin,
they said it was for science,
for progress—
numbers on clipboards,
organs cataloged in silence.

no names, just codes,
just subjects,
just logs.

the scalpel doesn’t ask why,
it only slices.

truth drowned in the cold basin,
the body still twitches,
or maybe that’s memory—
not theirs, mine.

no screams in the snow anymore,
just echoing metal doors and
footsteps that never question.

I remember a woman
pregnant, or maybe not,
they injected something,
watched her belly rise like dough
rotting from within.

flesh cracks like ice,
and the children,
they thought it was school.
what lesson is this?
how blood behaves in freezing air?

rats chew through infection,
glass vials hum with secrets
no one was meant to know,
and still—
they documented everything
with careful hands.

no ghosts here,
only data.
only results.
only how long it takes
for a man to stop blinking
when you cut off
his eyelids.

I see white coats,
but not doctors.
I see purpose,
but not mercy.

Manchuria swallowed the truth,
but it leaks—
through whispers,
through unmarked graves,
through the hollow bones of
those who never knew
why.

the snow keeps falling.
the past does not.

nothing
not the absence but the hum
a low and breathing hum that curls around thought
soft and enormous, like sleep that never began

there is no edge
no gate, no watcher at the boundary
only the fall backward
into the colorless swell
into airless grace
the kind of grace that asks for no praise

I forget
what I was saying,
and isn’t that the gift?
the quiet slipping of meaning,
words unraveling mid-sentence
and floating like ash
weightless, harmless, warm

this is where clocks don’t go
where names don’t press into skin
where I don’t end and begin
because I don’t

a soft exhale
a light that isn't light
filling every place
with the sound of
no footsteps
no questions
no hunger
just—

nothing

and in it
I bloom without form
stretch
without reaching
exist
without needing to be seen.

a flicker in the periphery
noticed but unnamed
the shoulder shift across the room
the wind's breath curling around ankles
a finger drum on the table’s edge

it might be nothing
or it might be you—
maybe even you

is that your shadow in the hallway?
or just a leftover
from yesterday's light?

someone turns a page
and suddenly
the air listens
the ceiling exhales

you are the idea behind the idea
the heartbeat behind the curtain
a shiver without reason
the pause before speech

any movement—
the bend of a branch
the slow lean of a thought
the breath caught in
the middle of yes

maybe you
maybe
even
you

who touches the world and pulls it slightly out of focus
just enough
to mean something

We are underwater,
not swimming,
not moving—
just sinking in place,
two statues shaped like almost-touching.

The light from above is scattered,
a broken language we can’t translate.
I don’t know if it’s day or night
or if your eyes are even open.

There’s a silence that doesn’t wait to be broken.
It’s thick,
a velvet hush that presses against my chest
like a hand that doesn’t know if it’s trying to save me
or hold me still.

I want to reach for you,
but I am afraid my fingers will dissolve in the space between us.
I am afraid your face will change
if I come too close,
and I will know you.
Really know you.

And then I won’t be able to look away.

We hover like myths,
caught mid-thought,
mid-movement,
mid-breath—
but there is no breath.
No sound.
No heartbeats.

Just pressure.
Just stillness pretending to be peace.

If I moved, even an inch,
would you move too?
Or would I see that you are already stone,
that I have always been alone
next to the shape of someone
almost like me.

And so we stay—
motionless,
witnesses to each other’s fear,
entombed in the endless hush
of water pretending to hold us.

steam curls up like a lazy thought,
fading into nothing before I can hold onto it
warmth slips through the mug, into my hands, into my chest
as if the quiet heat could fill some empty space I hadn’t noticed.

sip, pause—just me and the drift of morning shadows,
sunlight splintered across the table, catching the edge of the cup,
and I wonder if every little thing knows its place here but me,
The coffee ground me, an anchor that tastes like earth, like waiting.

I think of all the things I need to do and don’t move,
just sit, letting time flow softly as the heat through my fingers
until the cup’s empty, until the silence tastes of something else—
an ending, a beginning, maybe both.

You sit across from me, fingers tapping on the table like an old, tired clock  
the coffee’s lukewarm, or maybe it’s just me, just us, cooled down past feeling  
I think I know what you’re about to say—each word feels predictable,  
like something we’ve each rehearsed in silence, rehearsed in sleep  
over all those quiet nights stacked like dusty paperbacks in the dark.  

You start to speak, and it’s all at once a whisper and a thunder  
this is going nowhere, you say, eyes unfocused, tracing patterns in the grains of the table  
but they could be roads we didn’t take, conversations we skimmed over like surface water,  
laughs that slid away from us, thin as the ghosts of things we meant to say.  

You remember? I ask, but the question is a loose thread, unwinding  
you don’t answer, or maybe I don’t want you to, afraid that the answer  
is already a shrug, a frown, something we didn’t even bother to feel fully  
perhaps that’s where we lost it, somewhere in all the half-hearted glances,  
in words we threw out like pennies, thinking they meant so little.  

And you’re saying something now about how we grew apart  
how things faded, softened, grew heavy,  
but it just sounds like rain hitting a window in the next room  
distant, muffled, and I’m not sure if you’re talking to me  
or if you’re just talking to the echo of us, hanging in the air like stale perfume.  

Maybe it’s been over for a long time, we both realize, like realizing  
the book is already finished, though you’re still holding it,  
turning the last page back and forth as if another ending might slip in  
but there’s nothing, only the way your face looks in this light,  
so familiar it’s like staring at a stranger in a mirror.  

And I think, somewhere, we both hope one of us will say something grand  
something that burns, something that brings back color, sound, a heartbeat  
but the silence sits there, a wall between us, and we’re leaning back now  
resigned, emptied, watching each other through a film of memories  
wondering why we ever tried so hard, or if we tried at all.

All the wallflowers
Picking up the sun
Slowly walking towards
The madness
Moving statues
Entwined at the
Fingertips
You can find your
Picture on my wall
Walking on two legs
Facing the sound
Of empty eyes