Zebra Seeking Spoons

The words are still there,

pressed like flowers

between the pages of my lungs,

but the air forgets

how to lift them.

I open my mouth—

a hollow door swinging

on silent hinges.

The world tilts its ear

and hears only

the sound of breathing.

I write my sentences

on the backs of my hands,

carry them like fragile birds

no one can see.

Somewhere,

my voice waits in the dark,

tethered to a chord

I can’t reach,

patient as the moon

behind a curtain of cloud.

Until then,

I live in the quiet,

learning to speak

with my eyes.