There is incense in the walls.
Sandalwood and salt.
It clings to the air like memory—
burned slow,
never fully leaving.

I used to wake to bells in my chest,
a rhythm that knew sunrise
before the sky did.
Now I rise only
because gravity insists.
No melody.
Just the dull tug of skin on soul.

She—
or whatever wore light so easily—
left me a silence so loud
it bruises the birdsong.
Even the robins hesitate
at my windowsill now,
uncertain if my hunger
is for seed
or resurrection.

I walked into a church the other day,
but the pews had teeth,
and the stained glass wept red.
I whispered a name I wasn’t supposed to say.
Not in this world.
Not anymore.
The altar cracked a little.
The candle gave up.

There was a crash once—
not metal, not tire,
but spirit tearing fabric,
like linen at a funeral.
Illinois took something holy from me.
A flame that hummed in my ribcage.
Now there’s just a cavern
where offerings used to go.

At night I dream of a humming—
not electrical,
but celestial.
A tune braided in gold and marigold,
calling me to remember
what I must forget.

I still bless the soil.
But the basil wilts with no reason,
and the moon forgets where my house is.
I light candles,
but they curl away from the match,
like even fire is tired of pretending.

I am not bitter.
Bitterness requires hope spoiled.
I am beyond the spoil.
I am bone without marrow,
a psalm missing its last line,
a prayer left in the throat
of a man who once glowed.

There was a voice—
gentle, sacred—
that used to call me something
only God could translate.
Now the heavens are silent.
Or I am deaf.
Either way,
the light in me
has gone.

And I am still here.
Ash in my lungs.
Honey on my hands.
No idea why.