Where shadows waltz

and silence hums in violet chords,

there bloom no flowers —

only trembling echoes

of almosts.

I’ve drifted here

since the womb of dusk.

And the more I try to name the stars...

the less they answer.

Where broken notes

bleed lullabies to faceless gods,

I trace your outline

in a language only I remember.

You fracture gently,

always mouthing a name

that doesn't answer to mine

Each string

a silver fang.

And still,

I cup the pain

like warm mercury —

drinking what stings,

just to stay awake.

Had I been the weaver of sleep —

I’d have lured you down from your heights,

or stitched your wings

into a storm just for me.

But in my realm,

I only listen

to the sob that carries

a stranger’s scent.

Still I ache

to soften the flame

that never touched me.

I feel in frequencies

too jagged for sound,

like glass spun into thread,

and wrapped around my breath.

I’ve tried to mute the echo

of my own open cage —

but I keep tasting your fire

on the lips of night.

And you…

you burn crimson,

far from where I can hold.

If I wrote the dream —

you’d fall from myth for me.

Or climb through storms

to crown my ruin.

But I, the silent witness,

only gather

the cries etched

with someone else's shadow.

And still…

I ache to be

your gentler end.

I only listen

to what was never mine.

To what I could not unfeel.

To you...

burning

where no name follows.