Some droplets wait their whole lives just to erase you.
â Marginalia, Archivist of Petals
It leans above the rot and waits, its spine too stiff to sleep.
Your name is bent behind its gut, where glass turns silence deep.
It does not sway. It does not blink. It shivers when you're near.
Not from cold. Not from shame. Just the pressure of being clear.
Inside, the scene folds tighter still, with every glance you take.
It wrings the truth to something smallâthen hums it till you break.
You do not touch. You do not ask. You know what touch would mean.
The leaf has filed your name away beneath what canât be seen.
The record sings. The glass holds shut. The verdict seeps like black.
Youâre not inside. Youâre not outside. Youâre just not coming back.
Recovered from the underside of a listening leaf, edges still wet.