夜色如墨，我循著你指尖的微光

穿過沉默的灰塵與舊夢的回響

翅膀烙著未愈的傷，仍撲向灼燙

一次呼吸，一次焚亮

灰雪落進(jìn)眼眶，替我說出滾燙的謊

在你熄滅之前，讓我遺忘月光

把僅剩的磷火，寫上你的心臟

若墜落是答案，我愿做最后一次祭奠的光

Mrs. Morris, your chair still rocks by the window,

threadbare velvet humming the tune you hummed.

I keep your Thursday voicemails in a jam jar—

when the moon is a silver coin I twist the lid,

let your laugh jingle out across the empty kitchen.

The garden grows only your name in every row,

soft as thyme, stubborn as mint.

I speak to the walls, they answer in your accent;

I breathe, and the room exhales with you.