Death is no more, just a breath on the glass,
a frost that melts when morning leans in.
I wore his quiet like a second skin,
until the seams tore open and the dark spilled out.
Now I dance in the hush where the last heartbeat fell,
barefoot on echoes, crown of ash in my hair.
Sing, hollow night—your silence is silver;
I am the bell that refuses to toll.