Veronica Electronica

 She walks where the earth has forgotten softness—

a cathedral of fracture and bone-dry prayer,
cracked clay splitting like old confessions
no one dared to speak aloud.

A desert witch,
hair tangled with the slow grief of melting glaciers,
ancient ice weeping into strands of silver and salt—
memory of oceans she has never seen,
yet feels in her blood like a rumor.

Ravens circle where nothing should live,
black ink against a merciless sky,
their wings writing omens
she pretends not to read.

Beneath her feet,
a throbbing—
not of the land, but of longing,
a rhythm buried deep in the marrow of things,
calling her downward, inward,
toward something hidden
or something lost.

She presses her palms into the dust,
whispers to it like a lover gone cold.
Sigils bloom beneath her fingers,
etched in trembling lines—
circles, spirals, broken symbols of want.

Sage smoke curls from her mouth,
not exhale, but invocation.
She breathes the past into the present,
lets it sting her eyes
until she can almost see—

water,
or the shape of it.

A mirage of tenderness
flickering just beneath the surface of ruin.

The wind answers.

A zephyr—thin, uncertain—
slips between her ribs like a question.
It carries a siren’s call,
low and aching,
a song not of sea but of surrender.

Strip it away, it sings.
Strip it all.

And she does.

Layer by layer—
the names she’s worn,
the hands that held her halfway,
the promises that cracked like the earth below—
she sheds them into the sand.

Bare.
Raw.
A body remade of ache and hunger.

She shifts—
not flesh, but form of spirit,
becoming dust, becoming wind, becoming want itself—
shape-shifting through grief
until she is no longer searching
but becoming the search.

The ravens descend closer now,
their eyes like polished obsidian,
witnesses to the ritual of unraveling.

She digs—
not with hands, but with need.
Deeper than reason,
deeper than fear.

Because she knows:

Water does not come to the unbroken.
Love does not rise to the untouched.

It waits beneath—
in the dark,
in the pressure,
in the place where everything must be undone.

Her pulse matches the hidden current,
a drumbeat of desperate hope.

And for a moment—
in the haunted breath between night and dawn—
she feels it.

A coolness.
A trembling beneath the ruin.

Not yet water.
Not yet love.

But close enough
to keep digging.

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