I lift my voice—
it does not answer me.
It drifts,
like a cup set down on the river
and already forgetting my hands.

Moonlight edits the clouds.
The clouds misquote the moon.
Between them,
a thin laughter
falls into water.

I ask the night for direction.
The night loosens its robe
and shows me distance.

Mountains lean closer
only because I am leaving.
Stars stagger—
not from wine,
but from having watched too much time
pass through their bodies.

I send a message.
The wind receives it first.
It changes nothing,
and therefore understands.

Static hums like an old friend
who never learned my name
but always pours another drink.

What I lose
travels faster than what I keep.
What I keep
turns into a bridge
the moment I cross it.

The river remembers
every mouth that touched it,
and forgives them all
by continuing.

I lie down beside my shadow.
We agree
not to ask who is real.

Somewhere,
a signal lifts its head,
mistakes itself for a bird,
and flies—
not upward,
but endlessly sideways.

I follow
until following becomes stillness,
until stillness
forgets my shape.

If tomorrow finds this poem,
tell it:
I was never alone.
The night and I
were briefly
the same motion.

佾楠 | Yinan