Lightness falls like morning snow,
quiet on the shoulders of what we used to know.
Your breath, a silver thread, still swings
between the open ribs of night and wings.
I carry it—an unwrapped ache—
through streets that learn to shine by break.
If I dissolve, don’t call me back;
I’ll be the pulse inside the crack,
the hush that teaches glass to sing,
the lightness Draganov couldn’t bring.