If a body kiss a body, coming through the rye from the hollow where the heart should be—a hymn of skin and salt, a breath unmoored, a mouth tracing the curve of a shoulder like a ghost learning its own shape But the field is empty now, save for the ache dissolving in the mud, residue of a name half-said, half-meant, swallowed by the wind—where do the echoes go?
Into the ribs of the woman standing at the edge of the rye field, her boots sinking into wet earth, fingers curled around the hilt of a knife, she doesn’t remember drawing. Blood streaks the blade—not hers, not yet—but the scent of iron clings to her knuckles, thick as the cider mother used to drizzle over stolen apples.
A crow caws from the skeletal branches of a dead oak. The sound isn’t a warning; it’s laughter. She licks her teeth and tastes salt, sweat, the phantom press of lips that left no mark but carved grooves into her marrow. The wind carries whispers from the hollow—*you promised, you liar*—but the voice is hers, isn’t it? Always hers coming through the rye.
