I came to gather—not to mend, but name the things you lost again. Not light, not bright, not meant to shine— just soft enough to press in time. Macaw and Quetzal, threads and dust, the colors worn in quiet trust. Not every wound forgets its shape— some bloom beneath a waiting weight. We don’t stay long, but while I’m near, I’ll sing what silence makes sincere. Not to soothe, but to remind— this joy is borrowed, so let it unwind. I plant the song inside the hollow— not to fill, but let it follow. Not a bloom, and not a prayer— just proof that something stirred in air. They are not flowers—only signs of something lost between the lines. What holds its shape is never whole— it settles deep, and takes its toll. We don’t stay long— but I was here. I hummed the hush— so it would hear. Not to soothe you— just to stay. This joy is borrowed— Let it decay. A chain of feathers. A net of names. I gathered you between the frames. Colors folded, soft, then gone— I sang you even as you wronged. If the bloom fades, let it be. It’s not the flower— it’s the grief we keep. I rise with smoke, scatter my name— a hush in the garden, a breath in the clay. If petals find you in your sleep, they are not mine— but what remains when silence speaks.
