Time unspools in red threads—
veins of the clock,
still pulsing long after it stopped.

I loved you like a candle loves
its own ruin.
Wax-kissed. Flame-fed.
Afraid of the dark,
but terrified to burn forever.

Your shadow curls beneath my ribs,
whispering if, if, if
like a broken pendulum.

Each memory
a spark that needles my skin—
not warmth,
just that cruel static ache
of something trying to return
through numbness.

Some nights,
I see your name in the firelight
and can’t remember
if I dreamed you
or lost you.