Crystall

𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕭𝖊𝖑𝖑 𝕭𝖊𝖓𝖊𝖆𝖙𝖍 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕱𝖑𝖔𝖔𝖗 In the hollow of the hour when the dying embers pale, I hear your footfall in the hall, your fingers on the rail. The stair gives back its ancient creak, the latch begins to stir, And every room within me cries, 𝘐𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘦. 𝘐𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘳. I have bricked the eastern window. I have barred the chamber door. Yet a bell begins its tolling in the earth beneath the floor. Once for every word you whispered, twice for every vow I swore, Then a trembling little silence, and it tolls for something more. By the grey and graceless morning, I can name the trick of sound. Old houses shift upon their stones. The frost unseats the ground. I can tell you why the latch lifts. I can show you where it’s worn. By dusk I oil the hinge again, in case you come before the morn. There are hours when I remember how you left me in the hall, How I heard your carriage dwindling past the orchard’s outer wall. My palms are raw by morning. There is earth beneath each nail. By dusk the bell is tolling, and I lean against the rail. I have heard you say my name in every stroke but one. Every stroke but one, my love. Every stroke but one. That is why I ring it. That is why I go below.