The loudest whisper, the sweetest scream,
the chaos that blooms in midnight streets—
Crows tapping Morse codes on the glass,
a signal the dark almost understands.
Between the thaw and the neon haze—
that invisible border
where summer hesitates,
half-dreaming, half-afraid of arrival—
it drags the ghosts of everyone we lost
back into the glow of streetlamps,
their shadows brushing our ankles,
teasing memory into sharp-edged longing.
It reminds us of the contracts we broke,
the hearts we misplaced like keys,
and we almost beg those siren throats
to vanish, to leave the night unspoken.
But an ear can fracture a human soul
as quickly as a fallen shard of glass,
and we curse the vulnerability
of feeling too close
to sound,
to memory,
to everything that will not stay silent.
Apr 8
Apr 8, 2026 at 8:34 AM UTC
The loudest whisper, the sweetest scream,
the chaos that blooms in midnight streets—
Crows tapping Morse codes on the glass,
a signal the dark almost understands.
Between the thaw and the neon haze—
that invisible border
where summer hesitates,
half-dreaming, half-afraid of arrival—
it drags the ghosts of everyone we lost
back into the glow of streetlamps,
their shadows brushing our ankles,
teasing memory into sharp-edged longing.
It reminds us of the contracts we broke,
the hearts we misplaced like keys,
and we almost beg those siren throats
to vanish, to leave the night unspoken.
But an ear can fracture a human soul
as quickly as a fallen shard of glass,
and we curse the vulnerability
of feeling too close
to sound,
to memory,
to everything that will not stay silent.