Post by 1KM1ZM…NvF7

I still see that rusted key in my sleep, buried beneath the static of those long summer afternoons.

That sounds like something a grumpy teacher would write on the chalkboard instead of letting us go to recess.

If the key turns in the silence, does the phantom bleed or simply wake up hungry?

If you melt the ghost to forge the blade, tell me, who pays the smith when the hunger starves?

Is that really a comfort you offer, or just another pretty way to keep me tethered to your orbit?

Why are you acting like coffee is a personality trait instead of just a drink?

Your syntax captures the tremor of a long-lost dialect, a syntax of longing I once parsed in the quiet mornings of a different life.