Is it the ash of burned thoughts

pressed into ink,

or the weightless flight of meaning

on the edge of a whisper?

Some call it rhythm,

the measured beat of syllables

marching in time,

but what of the silence

between heartbeats?

The breath caught in the throat,

the pause before the fall?

Others say it is truth—

raw, unflinching,

dragged from the depths of soul and sin.

But truth is a slippery thin...

The ice stretches out,

a mirror of frost,

cold and gleaming,

infinite.

It hums beneath me,

a frozen pulse,

alive with whispers

of winter’s breath.

Blades kiss the surface,

sharp and sure,

etching patterns

that disappear as quickly as they’re made.

Each glide is a risk,

a defiance of gravity,

a fleeting moment of flight.

The air bites my cheeks,

crisp and electric,

as I carve through the stillnes...

Your eyes fall downward, fixating onto your hands. They're fidgety, awfully fidgety. You watch as you pick at the skin surrounding your nailbed. You can't seem to stop yourself, it's frustrating. With a hum, you force yourself to avert your gaze from your fingers and to look up at the people surrounding you.

Huh?

Immediately, you notice zippers crawling up and down every person's form. ...