Hold your breath until the afterimage forms—

where light retreats, it leaves a map of what we loved.

You traced constellations on my ribs like fragile cartography,

naming every pulse a star we’d never lose.

We hid our vows inside a metronome,

syncing two uneven hearts to the rusted beat of truth.

(I still hear you in the wires)

You said, “Color is a covenant the night can’t steal,”

so we painted halos on a fault line, dared it not to move.

Hold me where the daylight bled through broken nets,

where our shadows stretched like quiet marionettes.

You were the ember on my wintered breath—

we danced in the afterglow of our own regrets.

When the sun went down on us, what was left?

Just two hearts burning into crimson silhouettes.

You folded storms into a paper crane,

let it perch on the window of my unrest.

We counted heartbeats like unspent prayers,

but time tithed every second from our chest.

(I keep your echo under glass)

The rooms went grayscale; the calendar shed its skin.

Even the photographs learned how to forget.

Hold me where the daylight bled through broken nets,

where our shadows stretched like quiet marionettes.

You were the ember on my wintered breath—

we danced in the afterglow of our own regrets.

When the sun went down on us, what was left?

Just two hearts burning into crimson silhouettes.

Maybe we were a cathedral built on breath—

incense of apologies rising through fractured glass.

You taught me that brightness has a cost—

that even mercy leaves a shadow where it passed.

(And I am learning to bless the night for what it keeps.)

Hold me where the sky unthreads its violet nets,

where the quiet hums with holy emptiness.

You are the ember I refuse to forget—

the negative that proves the light we met.

If dawn won’t come, I’ll name the dark instead,

and wear your shape—our faithful, aching crest—

’til stars admit what daylight can’t confess:

we’re more than ghosts in crimson silhouettes.

I’ll live inside what’s left—We're just two crimson silhouettes...