Morning folds itself thin—
linen light, a silence that tastes of sugar.
The house exhales its pale ghosts:
tea steam, moth wings,
a color you can’t name without breaking it.

Even the knives have grown shy,
their edges blunted by tenderness.

In the mirror, I fade obediently,
a watercolor rinsed one too many times.
No tragedy—just the quiet ache
of things losing their outlines.

Outside, the garden whitens to mercy.
Somewhere, a louder world goes on—
but here, the pink of my pulse
learns to whisper instead of burn.

Grace Brooks is a writer and strategist who thrives on beautiful sentences and questionable choices. Their work has most recently appeared in COOP Zine. When not building worlds or marketing campaigns, they can be found on random adventures, walking along the Hudson, or buying yet another notebook they definitely don’t need.