Have you ever heard a hot spring cry,  
steam rising like morphine, heavy with forgetting?  
It ***** your energy,  
like hot tea searing the palms  
of someone desperate to hold you back.  

In its release, there’s a static hum,  
not the gentle kind-
more give than an electric seam,  
sinking you toward the ocean floor,  
where even stars grow cold,  
and the night, once dripping with warmth,  
fractures into distant, silent homes.  

The greatest lie I’ve ever told:  
I’ve turned a corner.  

But I’ve learned corners don’t turn-
they fold, swallowing you whole,  
like steam curling into the sky,  
like the moment just before touch slips away.  

Even light, you see, is a myth-  
it fades, it cools.  
And we, in this endless descent,  
are left holding the warmth  
of something that was never really ours.  

Have you ever heard a hot spring cry?