Blue flame in my chest,
six beats past midnight,
I chase the echo of your name
through corridors of static.
Time folds like paper cranes—
three creases, six wings—
and I fall upward into noise.
Scarlet sirens sing in reverse,
your pulse a metronome of shadows.
Hold the last note until it breaks;
let the silence stitch the sky.
We burn cobalt, uncollected,
a constellation still counting
to seven.