I am a kind of Tantalus,
not cursed, only shaped
by some quiet architect
who knew desire as distance.

I speak in the dialect of longing,
show others the soft seams of the world,
the places where love seeps in.
They find it. They bloom.
And I vanish from the frame.

My hands are full of maps
to gardens I do not enter,
my voice a thread
leading them out of the dark
while I remain
woven into it.

I am the echo that guides,
never the name they remember.
A hunger mistaken for wisdom.
A shimmer that flickers
just past the edge of waking.

they were right when they said grief comes in waves

some waves are like dipping your toes into swirls with the sun kissing your shoulders

others are thunderous, threatening to pull you under the icy swells

they push and pull you

you cling on

waiting for the next break in the tide

Praying the next wave won't be the one to drown you.