The sky is a tendon, frayed thin by teeth
you never saw but always felt.
Clouds bruise where the wind forgets its name,
dripping vowels that splinter on the street below.

The alleyway chews its own shadow,
spitting out footprints that lead nowhere.
A door unhinges itself—not open, not closed,
just the absence of both.

Inside, time has folded wrong.
Walls lean toward you like hungry things,
their plaster tongues lapping at the scent
of something almost human.

A glass of water tilts without falling.
The soup tastes like forgotten alphabets,
syllables curling at the edges of your tongue
before slithering down your throat in reverse.

A figure exhales, but the breath does not leave—
it coils, thick and iridescent,
a thing with too many wings,
each one stitched from the whispers of lost hours.

The candle does not flicker; it dreams.
The spoon hums, knowing more than you.
Your reflection turns its back,
steps out of the mirror, and leaves you there.

Outside, the street swallows its own silence.
Something in the distance—
a clock? a voice? the shudder of the earth?
No. Just the sound of something watching,
waiting, wearing your skin.