Soft lullabies seep through the walls,
warped—distant—like voices underwater.
Fingers brush glassy skin,
but I can’t tell if they belong to me.

The air hums with a name I almost remember,
whispering in a language I used to know.
Something drips—tick, tick, tick—
but the clock’s hands are missing.

I step forward—
or maybe backward—
or maybe I don’t move at all.
My reflection flickers, too slow for the mirror,
folding inward like wet paper.

The room breathes.
The walls bend like candle wax.
A dove flutters behind my ribs,
but I can’t tell if it’s real.

Someone is calling.
Their voice sifts through my fingers like sand.
I open my mouth—
but the words fall straight through.

Everything is quiet.
Everything is slipping.
Everything is—