Night folds its fragrance into slender letters and slips them secretly through my half-open window. And I heard it— not the wind, but the sound of petals blooming deep within my bones, that soft little pop, as if someone pressed “play” in the deepest chamber of my heart. The words you erased have become hidden fireflies, floating into my sleeves, warming me so gently I cannot bear to shake them off. Those sweetnesses that never reached your tongue fermented into wine on mine— one sip, and the whole summer turned into a beautiful drunkenness. The Weaver Girl cut the Milky Way into a slender ribbon of light and tied it quietly around your wrist. I watched the stars tumble down your pulse and fall into my shadow, blooming into a field of morning glories that will never fade. Listen— it is now my heartbeat that blooms beside your ear. The sound is small, yet stubborn, opening petal by petal, staining the whole night into red.