returning to a place of post-apocalypse calm

i am now returning—
a phrase, a wound, a hinge on a door
half-hanging, rusted on promises
never meant to keep.

what is “now”
but the afterbirth of once,
slick with the memory of chaos
and the shimmer of things
almost touched?

returning implies departure,
a before where the dust hung silent,
where streets were names
and names were maps,
not cracked veins of earth
reaching for an ocean
that no longer believes in itself.

a place—
what is a place?
a corner of the mind draped in ash,
a skeleton of memory,
the architecture of yearning—
or just a room, empty but for
the ghost of your shadow
and the faint hum of time unwinding.

post-apocalypse calm:
here lies the paradox—
calm is not the absence of storms
but the recognition that the winds
never stopped screaming,
that silence is a trick of the ear
trained too long to the roar.

there is no return.
only a shifting of frames,
a tilt of the head,
a mirage that tells you
the wasteland is home
because you’ve forgotten
what water tastes like.

and so, i am here—
not in the calm,
not beyond the apocalypse,
but standing in the stillness
of its breath.