Spindly needles of frost cling to weathered gold,
the leaf bends beneath their weight.
Fog rises, thick and silent,
branches sharpen into knives,
cutting through the pale dawn.

The old man carves his talent into time,
death murmurs near, soft as breath.
A girl with fair hair spins barefoot
through empty streets,
fires burn behind her,
crosses inked on skin,
tears etched in permanence.

Lovers, unashamed, kiss carelessly.
His blackened hands bruise her pale body,
purple blossoms bloom
as their hunger devours the moment.
Eyes like lakes, the old man watches,
proud, detached, remembering.

The memory thrashes—a storm of fists,
blood on teeth, skies collapsing.
Howls shatter the silence,
the price of another hit.
Alone, crumbling, he danced once too,
selling pieces of himself
to keep the night at bay.

Now it is all a dance,
the endless illusion of nothingness.
Pain and relief close their eyes together,
fingers frozen,
pressing against the glass
of a universe crumbling to frost.

The tide turned, soft as a breath,
pulling your words back into the sea.
I stood on the edge of your silence,
watching the waves erase you,
each moment vanishing before it could settle.

This sorrow crept in like f o g,
quiet, unnoticed, until it was everything.
Once, we were sunlight through half-open blinds,
simple, warm, unspoken.
Now, only the shadows remain,
stretching farther than I can reach.

The tide receded, carrying pieces of us—
the way your voice filled a room,
the weight of your name in my thoughts.
I turned away, not toward hope,
but away from the emptiness.
And behind me, the sea whispered,
This is where we begin again.

Truth folds, disappearing into silence.
The weight of grief clings,
hands flicker, click-click, searching for light.

Choices drown in still waters,
shadows ripple, fingers snap-snapping,
an ache that hums through the air.

The void opens, whispering her name.
She steps forward, untethered,
into the shape of the unknown.