The river doesn't wait for an invitation,
it simply arrives, the skyline blurred behind it—
a slow erasure,
layered like wet tissue
pressed against glass.
The streets are not streets anymore,
but a thousand fractured mirrors,
each reflection muddied,
not quite the same as the last.
I think I saw the moon earlier,
but it was caught in the undertow,
drowned beneath the weight of its own reflection.
Do we remember the names of things?
Concrete? Asphalt?
Now just fragments,
disconnected,
shifting with the current.
Voices from nowhere—
whispers that were once loud,
they sound like static
on an old radio,
searching for a frequency
that stopped existing.
A boat floats by,
empty except for a child's shoe
that doesn’t belong.
I ask,
but no one answers.
There’s no one left
to ask.
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