i live in a house that hums underwater—
the walls breathe, slow and heavy,
like whales remembering hymns.
i’ve misplaced gravity somewhere in the kitchen.
the spoons float above the sink,
each one holding a reflection of someone i used to be.
my mother calls from the other side of the glass,
her voice warped like a candle underwater,
saying, don’t let the tide take your name again.
but the tide already knows it.
it whispers come back, come back,
and i almost do.
sometimes, i open the front door
and the whole ocean sighs through my chest.
sometimes, i think i built this house
just to hear something breathe with me.
and when i sleep,
the hum becomes a heart,
and i can’t tell if it’s mine
or the world’s—
but it beats anyway.