I left my voice on the threshold, the air pressed heavy, thick with stillness. No more scraping the skies with claws, my breath folded into the hollow air. The air was pressed, heavy, thick with stillness, a choir of nothing sung to my marrow. My breath folded into the hollow air, time cracked its back and spilled its guts. A choir of nothing sung to my marrow, I rose, a shadow climbing its own spine. Time cracked its back and spilled its guts, no sound, just the echo of leaving behind. I rose, shadow climbing its own spine, I left my voice on the threshold.