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Something pressed lightly

against the edge of my being

a small ripple,

a shift in the hidden architecture

of the heart.

A brightness cracked open,

letting in a wind that carried

both warmth

and the faint scent of something aching.

Inside, rooms rearranged themselves

without my permission.

Old echoes stirred,

dust rising in slow spirals.

And so tonight,

I let the print speak for me.

A form born two nights ago,

before the trembling had a name.

It stands there

a creature of fragments,

rising and collapsing

in the same breath.

White strokes flare like thoughts

trying to outrun themselves,

while the dark behind them

leans close, listening.

Nothing here is whole.

Nothing is broken.

It is simply the truth

of a moment turning inward

an echo caught in ink,

a soft fracture made visible

without explanation.

Colour will come later.

For now, this monoprint waits beside me,

a silent witness

to whatever is shifting

beneath the surface