Every dawn, I surface—as if pulled from the throat of a dark sea,
heavier, my body tangled in the night’s unbroken net.
I sleep deeper now, where the world is a painter
and I am both brush and canvas, stained with the color of wanting.

The days unfold like fields long abandoned,
soil untouched, wind humming through the empty rows.
I take the hours in my mouth—
first honey, then rot, the slow unravel of sweetness into ruin.

And each morning, I turn my face from the sun,
for its light reveals what I cannot bear:
the stillness of a life unspent.

Sol Fallman