Last night, sleep opened its velvet throat—
and I fell into the hush between heartbeats,
where the walls of the world breathe slow,
and time forgets its name.

He stood there.
My father—
not as ash in the urn,
but as shadow sewn in dreamlight,
his voice a paper lantern in the fog.

He said something.
Words folded in half,
creased like love letters unsent.
A tongue I should have known
but could not parse—
like trying to read raindrops
as they run down glass.

His eyes were galaxies
just out of reach—
all gravity, no ground.
He smiled like someone
who’s seen the ending
and can’t explain it.

Was it a message?
A map?
A test?

He left me with nothing but silence
stitched in silk and salt,
and the ache of unlearned riddles
tattooed across my chest.

Now I sit beneath the fig tree of my grief,
its fruit swollen with unsaid things.
I peel back memory like skin,
searching for symbols in marrow,
for parables in pulse.

What was I meant to understand?
That love does not end,
only alters its architecture?
That the dead do not speak in answers,
but in echoes
and invitations?

Some lessons aren’t given.
They’re grown—
like thorns
from the same vine as the rose.

And maybe
that was the point.