Today, I wore black
to mourn the dead futures
or celebrate the absence of light,
to feel the bones beneath my skin—
a silhouette slicing the fat air.

Thin and elegant,
the mirror mutters noir hymns,
a fragmented gospel of stitched shadows,
and the fabric whispers secrets of lost time—
they always whisper,
the dead and the seams alike.

Was it mourning or celebration?
Does it matter? The streets
don’t ask,
don’t care if you’re a ghost or a goddess
sliding through the cracks
between neon prayers and asphalt elegies.

Black is a portal,
a torn page from a forgotten hymnbook.
Elegance folds into nothingness,
thinned to abstraction—
a threadbare truth unraveling
in the night’s relentless choreography.

Today, I wore black.
Maybe it wore me.