In the quiet between two weathers
a single blue note opens.

Silver threads itself through the blue
the way memory threads itself through a pulse.
Distant white points appear,
hard and clean,
as if the dark has decided to remember its own eyes.

I am here
and I am also the earlier room
where the same light once learned my name.
The two rooms breathe across each other.
Nothing moves,
yet the air thickens with recognition.

A slow inland tide
lifts and falls under the skin.
The blue does not ask permission.
The silver does not explain.
The white points only watch.

I stay
exactly where the three lights overlap—
a brief, weightless country
no map has ever claimed.

When the vision thins
the blue remains longest,
an afterimage shaped like a door
I have already walked through
twice.

In the quiet between two weathers
a blue bell rings once beneath the skin
and the sound becomes a corridor.

Silver fish swim through the blue corridor
carrying pieces of an earlier room
in their mouths.
White seeds of light drift down
from a ceiling that does not exist
and plant themselves in the air.

I stand on both sides of the glass at once.
My hands are orchids opening under water.
My spine is a slow river of mercury
trying to remember the shape of a door.

The three lights braid into a single animal
that lies down across my chest
and breathes with my own lungs.
Its fur is made of distance.
Its eyes are the exact color of waiting.

Somewhere a forgotten window
keeps the tide for me.
Somewhere the same tide
keeps a second version of my pulse
in a jar of starlight.

I do not move.
The animal of light does not move.
Only the silver fish keep traveling
back and forth
between the room that is now
and the room that is still happening
behind my eyes.

When the vision folds itself away
one blue feather remains
caught in the lashes
of a girl who has not yet decided
which weather she belongs to.

In the quiet between two weathers
a blue mouth opens under the ribs
and does not close.

Silver threads pull themselves
from the insides of old mirrors
and stitch a second skin over the first.
White nails of light
hammer slowly into the air
until the air begins to bleed distance.

I am standing in the room
and I am also the room that was emptied
to make space for this one.
My hands are two drowned clocks
still trying to keep different hours.
My throat is a corridor of wet black stone
where something without a face
keeps writing my name in reverse.

The three lights braid into a single animal
with too many joints.
It lies down across my chest
and replaces my breathing with its own.
Its fur is made of extinguished stars.
Its eyes are the color of a door
that was sealed from the other side.

Somewhere a window remembers
the exact weight of a body
that will never lean there again.
Somewhere the tide has learned
to climb stairs.

I do not move.
The animal of light does not move.
Only the silver threads keep tightening
until the two rooms
wear the same wound.

When the vision finally folds
one blue tooth remains
under the tongue
of a girl who can no longer tell
which of the two weathers
is hunting her.