“Echoes in the Graduated Cylinder”
In the glass throat of morning,
a single drop measures memory—
not by volume, but by ache.
Calibrated silence, etched
in milliliters of longing,
where each mark recalls
a moment we didn’t name.
The meniscus curves like a question,
hovering between surface tension and surrender.
And still, the wait drops— not to fall,
but to be seen.
.