it remembers me.
the sky.
the mouth above the mouth.
the lightless gullet where clouds go to rot.

i kneel in the driveway
and my bones click like prayer beads.
i say nothing.
the wind fills in the blanks.

above,
the bruised vault peels open.
something pours out that smells like me—
ozone and old milk and motherlessness.

i know this feeling.
the ache behind the eye.
the tug in the marrow.
the static in the throat right before god speaks
and forgets my name again.

the sky remembers me.
like blood remembers stain.
like salt remembers wound.
like hunger remembers teeth.

and so i let it.
i open my mouth
and taste iron,
and ascend.

not float.
not rise.
just—
dislocate upward
until every tendon sings its own name
and snaps
like wet string.

there is no rupture.
there is no goodbye.
only the soft gulp
of return