I dreamt the rails were made of breath

I was standing at the edge of a yard, and the tracks weren’t steel—they were woven from slow, steady exhalations. Each one pulsed faintly, like a sleeping lung. I could hear them breathing in time with my own. No train came. No whistle. Just that quiet rhythm, deep and patient. I knelt down and pressed my ear to the ground—felt it not vibrate, but remember. Like the earth itself had learned to hold its breath for years, waiting for something to return. When I woke, my mouth tasted like iron. Not blood. Not rust. Just old metal, still warm.