This pigture hums in F sharp snout.
Half rose, half hush—
a creature carved from quiet contradiction.
Its ear bends like a soft apostrophe,
interrupting the grammar of brown.

The line trembles—
not sadness, more like remembering mud.
A thought moves behind the eye,
slow as a spoon through honey.

Hypothesis: the world is pink when seen from the trough.
Counter-hypothesis: the trough is the horizon with better acoustics.
Synthesis: we sip light and call it philosophy.

Listen—
the paper itself grunts once, approving,
then folds back into stillness,
leaving only the scent of a sentence
that never quite ended.