not all who follow find the rabbit

beneath the epidermal veil, 

a soft ache where red blooms, 

wildflowers of fracture and fugue. 

each intermittent shard catching the faintest flicker,

frangible pulse, 

a gasp as stubborn as spring’s first breath. 

the wound remembers the weight of sunlight, 

even when shadows press ink-stained truths on translucent skin.

and somewhere in the quiet rupture, 

hope folds itself. 

a moth’s wing,

thin and trembling, all but vanished,

but still there—waiting, whispering—

notyet.