Cries and whispers in the hallway,

your ghost still hums the radiator.

I leave a cup of night out for you—

it cools, forms skin, begins to breathe.

Streetlight drips like slow silver

over the unmade crime of our bed.

I whisper back, but the wallpaper

swallows every vowel whole.

If grief has a frequency,

it’s the hush between these heartbeats,

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Whispers of the rain, soft against my skin,

Telling me the stories that the sky has kept within.

Every drop a memory, every cloud a silent cry,

Drifting through the night as the world passes by.

I walk beneath the sorrow, let the thunder speak my name,

In the hush of the storm, I am never quite the same.

Whispers of the rain, I listen close and fade,

A ghost beneath the downpour, where all my dreams are laid.

在雪原盡頭點(diǎn)燃舊電臺(tái)，

殘?jiān)孪裎磾Q緊的氧氣罐。

你說別回頭——

身后是宇宙聾掉的耳朵。

我把所有未寄出的名字

折疊成星塵，塞進(jìn)

漏風(fēng)的鐵皮心臟。

倒數(shù)三秒，

讓記憶失去重力，

讓冰縫里的回聲

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Moonlit foam repeats your name,

silver threads pull me under.

Shells keep secrets, hearts keep time—

every crash is one breath closer.

I follow the hush between waves,

where your ghost learns to sing.

Salt tattoos the night on my skin,

pulse of the deep in my chest.

If the tide turns, carry me quiet;

love was always a drowning sound.