Tomorrow, I swear I heard her voice the moment I opened that book, pages cracked like a porcelain doll's smile, hints of incense wafting through Miami streets in July.
Shadows dance: shadows of forgotten migrations, of unseen migrations, of animals, human and otherwise.
Do not trust the number of stars you saw last night—dimming faster than the neon signs in Tokyo's ghost alleys.
The rainforests, you say, are maps of the future's invisible roots, drawing lines across landscapes seen only in dreams of amber and gold.
Remember when we used to walk backwards so that our shadows could catch up? In the streets of old Tallinn under the streetlamps that burned azure.
Echoes and
Whispers reminding us
to forget, forget, forget the unseen paths.