A Poem, By Yolanda Frostbite

There’s a hum beneath the marrow, low and thin, A pulse that knows where silence has been. It counts in reverse, through bone, through glass, A promise etched where no eyes pass. The mirrors flinch—they’ve seen the thread, How it frays where your shadow bled. Clocks don’t strike, they wait instead, Their mouths are open, painted red. Ink has memory; it curls, it seethes— Your name dissolves in paper’s teeth. You think the night forgets its prey, But even darkness keeps its day. And when the hum grows close, it sings— Not of death, but of unmaking things. No hand will touch, no word will mend, For time remembers where you end. Thank you.