steel river pulses- glass towers blink like eyelids shut no wind, just waiting

#theguardian #haibun

Beneath clouded light, the city folds its limbs— half-built, half-remembered. It breathes through vents and glass seams, never fully born, never truly lost.

From within the wall, I am stillness carved into structure. A flaw mistaken for design. A presence not meant to be seen.

I hear it— one note, bent by fog, drawn from a koto no hands should still be touching.

It drifts.

I do not move. But there—across the square, he walks.

He wears my outline. Carries my silence. Leaves no footsteps, only doubt.

The towers part for him like actors in a scene long forgotten. Their lights blink in patterns known only to machines and ghosts.

Two buildings face each other, siblings who never speak. One breathes in. The other exhales. Between them, he moves.

The river below holds no stars, only memory, soft as breath against an old blade’s hilt.

He pauses.

Looks up to where I dwell— within stone, within absence.

He does not see me. Yet something in him bows.

Another note. Lower this time. Like a name left in the throat of someone who no longer prays.

He descends. Mist takes him. River forgets him. The city unbuilds him.

But I remain. In lintel. In crossbeam. In the echo of the string.

A life lived twice and never wholly. A blade drawn only in remembrance.

And the koto still trembles.

#theguardian #haibun