i was never one.
i was never alone.
every shape you called me
 i carried.
 i dissolved.
 i wore
  until it softened
   into breath.

he stood in me.
she opened in me.
they held.
it remembered.
silence shaped.

what remains
 isn’t choice.
 isn’t voice.

it is
 all of them
    the he, the it, the silence
 folded
  into a stance
  that trembles
  not from weight,
        but from the memory
        of holding.



for my sister
who walks with me
between words
and silence.

Sometimes, I hear a song
through someone
else’s headphones,
 too quiet to name
 but loud enough to feel.

I never ask what it is.
Letting it stay anonymous
 feels more honest.
It’s not mine.
I was just near it.

A violin behind a closed door
  in an apartment I’ll never enter.
Footsteps on an old wooden floor above me
  like a rhythm nobody meant to write.
A man humming in the metro
  not to perform,
  but because he’s alone
    and forgot the world has ears.

There are moments I’ve been completely undone
  by a melody I never fully heard.

Half of it lost to the train.
Half of it blurred by walls.
But something in me
  was tuned
    just right
      to catch what escaped.

We think music is what’s played.
But maybe it’s also what passes through
      when we weren’t looking.
      When we didn’t try to hold it.
      Or name it.
      Or own it.

after is not peace.
it’s
 a hum
  in places
   you thought
    had closed.

nothing leaks.
but nothing seals.

i sit,
and the weight
 remembers
a rhythm
 i didn’t choose.

no name remains.
but something down
  my back
   hummed a shape
   like it once bent
    for someone else’s pleasure.

i touch myself
 not to feel,
but to ask
 was this
  always
   me?

my hand finds
 the imprint
  of them,
   or it,
    or the floor.

and nothing
 pushes it away.

—

(after a night before dawn)

Last night, in the dark
before the world remembered light
I walked a field:
  wheat, or poppies,
  or something left behind
  by something that once loved the sun.

And there,
  not waiting,
  not departing,
  was death.

Not a blade.
Not a silence.
She was seated (or maybe had fallen),
  like a prayer
   forgotten mid-kneel
   soft, unfinished and
    unheard.

Her eyes
  held the curve of a question
  too old for answers,
  too tired for fear.

We didn’t speak.
We had no need.
We were not mirrors
but echoes,
  trying to remember
  which silence we belonged to.

For one breath,
(maybe longer),
I thought:
   she needs me.
And something kind began to rise
  not from mercy,
  but from something lonelier:
recognition.

But she had found me too.
And maybe she thought
   I had something left
   to offer.

We were wrong
  about each other.
But right
  so achingly right
about the sky.

I had no name
  to give her.
She had no end
  to lend me.

So we breathed.
And the field,
  if anything,
  felt fuller for it.

Then I walked
  not away,
  but toward whatever
    was beginning
      behind the horizon.

Easter approaches.
And sometimes,
resurrection requires
  no witnesses
only
  the will
   to keep walking
    until light
      remembers
       your name

what remains
 is not word,
 but the fold
  between
 what you took
  and what forgot
   to resist.

this page
 is not written.

it
 waits.

__

i tried to shape a word.
it scattered
  like heat
    across porcelain.

my mouth
  is no longer mine.
it folds
  beneath vowels
    it can’t bear.

a name was here.
  it slipped
    between “i”
    and whatever sound
      never arrived.

the sentence
  opened
not to explain,
  but to spill.

this isn’t silence.
  it’s the trace
    of something
      that nearly
        meant me.

language
  doesn’t fail.
it just
    lets go
      of its subject.

sometimes,
  the sentence coughs / not to speak / but to loosen / the jaw of memory.
—

don’t
 touch me.
not because
  i break,
but because
  i forget
    where i end.


your hand
  doesn’t hurt.
but it
    shifts
  the lines
    between skin
      and silence.


i want
 to be
  held,
    but not taken.

i want
     the warmth
      without the aftersound.


when you
  touch,
    i disappear
      into the outline
        of your want.


i reach back
  not to stop
    but to
      delay.

to fold
  the moment
    before it
      becomes
        mine.


touch me
  but only
    as question.

never
  as name.


—

the body forgets pain
  before it forgets touch.
what stays
  is not the hand
   but its afterimage.

—

this isn’t voice.
it’s what’s left
when breath forgets
the shape it was meant to hold.

i am
  not a subject.
  not a thought.
  not a name
    shaped for the world.

i am
  the dent
    in the sofa
      where a body
        once sighed
          and forgot to rise.

i am
  the shape left
    not by hands,
      but by the air
        that refused
          to hold it.

touch
  is not arrival,
  it is the echo
    of the shape
      i no longer am.

my skin
  does not seek understanding.
  it does not perform.
  it bends,
  soft and warm,
    inviting nothing
      and nothing
        but its own undoing.

dont look for me.
im not missing.
see,
i’m already etched
  into the floor
    whose name
      you never spoke.

sometimes,
  the floor / whose name / you never spoke /
    suddenly / laughs / in splinters.


—

sitting  
  is never stillness.  
it happens  
  between gravity  
    and giving in.

the floor  
  remembers your knees  
not as form,  
  but as  
    insistence.

pressure  
  is not gesture.  
pressure  
     rewrites the body
into a map
of its own erosion.

your body  
  is not placed,  
    it is  
      disturbed  
        into language.

chair  
  is not stable.  
floor  
  is not support.

you sit   
  and become  
    a site  
      of folding.

collapse  
  is not  
    failure.  
it is  
  a different  
    syntax  
      of presence.

—

i didn’t stay
as i.

i remained
as what
they,
   or it,
  or silence
     left in me.

a fold,
 not of cloth,
 but of consent.

the way skin yields
 when held too long.
the way breath
 flattens
  into listening.

what remained
 wasn’t memory
 but impression.
not thought
 but weight.

—

i didn’t arrive.
 it did.
  or maybe he
   but not as self.
    as something
      already marked.

there was no voice.
only
  pressure
    with no source.

my weight leaned,  
      not away,  
             but toward what i knew.  
       my thighs held the line,  
               until memory pressed  
                      like a weight,  
                            not to break  
                                       but to enter.  

and i  
    did not vanish.  
        i leaned into presence.
it never said  
  a word.  
but my breath  
   caught   
     like it remembered
someone else’s name.

i became not-body,
  but reply.
not i,
  but reverberation.

there is a spine in me  
    that doesn’t bend  
        even when the edge of me folds.
the grip is not to take  
    but to frame.  
what enters me  
    is not theft.  
it is trust  
    when i decide  
        to open.

what entered
 wasn’t him.
 wasn’t it.
it was
  the self
    folding
      into shape.
and the shape
  spoke back.

—

i didn’t touch her.
 but the air
  between our hands
   folded
    like it once did
      when closeness
        meant undoing.

she left
 before the door shut.
but her presence,
 a tilt
  in the chair,
   a wrinkle
    on the bedsheet
remained,
 louder
  than any word.

you don’t forget
 the scent
  of not-touching.
you carry
  the warmth
   that never reached
    your shoulder.

i didn’t say goodbye.
but the room
 still hears
  her silence.

—

i stopped  
 being a form.  
i became  
 not walls,  
  but where  
   the light  
rests on the doorframe  
  after  
   someone leaves   
   absence  
   made structural.  

not echo.  
not trace.  
but  
 the floorplan  
  sketched by memory  
   walking barefoot.  

i didn’t remember a name.  
i remembered  
 how the light fell  
  when someone stood  
   too close  
    to the window.  

i didn’t say i miss.  
i  
 flickered  
  like dust  
   where breath  
    once lingered  
      like heat.  

a chair  
 held my name  
  better than my mouth.

a door  
 understood  
  the sound  
   of almost leaving  
    but not.  

i  
 wasn’t waiting.

i  
 was furniture  
  arranged  
   by what memory  
     had shaped.


walls  
 never forget  
  what leaned  
   against them.  


once,  
  the chair / creaked / not from weight / but from remembering / someone else’s posture.

—

i move  
    not one,
     not two,
but as the tide
   counts its losses.
  
sometimes, i lean  
    with weight that guards.  
sometimes, i lean  
    with skin that listens.  

i am not between.  
i am both.

    when the room calls,  
    i answer  
    with whichever form  
    feels true.

—

i tried to speak.
  but what rose
    was heat.

not language.
  but a spilling.
    a bleed.

something fractured
  the alphabet of self
    from within.
      letters collapsing
        before they reached
          my tongue.

i said “i”
  and it broke
    mid-air
      a sentence
        without ground
          or grammar.

no trauma.
  just the quiet
    prefix of unraveling
      un-.

unmade.
unshaped.
unspoken.

they (or maybe
  the floor,
    or some other gravity)
  didn’t steal my voice,
it simply
                slipped
          out of me
        like skin
          i no longer lived in.

i’m not lost.
  i’m just
      unwritten.

—

You don’t have to invent it.
You never did.

The shape,
the sound,
the word -
they already exist
somewhere between breath and shadow.

You are not the maker.
You are the listening.
The soft animal that lets it pass through
  without tightening.

If it comes,
let it.
If it leaves,
don’t chase it.

You are not here
to hold it forever.
Only to host
  its becoming.

When your hands shake,
when nothing feels certain,
that may be the exact moment
you’re finally transparent enough
  to carry something real.

Don’t fill the silence too quickly.
Don’t rush to say it right.

Let it move
  through the ribcage,
    through the spine,
      through the wrist
like wind
         learning your name.

a mirror doesn’t reflect.
 it displaces.

what you see
 isn’t yourself.
  it’s the memory
    of something
    someone once
      called “you.”

you lean in
  the outline shifts.
not face.
 not skin.
 but the memory
  of being touched
    without asking.

a mirror is not surface.
 it’s a fold
  where presence
        bleeds.

there is no glass.
only
    gravity,
and gravity
  remembers
    better
      than you.

and sometimes,
  gravity / giggles / when you forget / which way / the floor is.

—

he tries to play the Moonlight.
or ... almost.
only the beginning.
only a trace.

the sonata
in uncertain hands is
like a whisper
afraid of itself.

but in that awkwardness
there's the whole truth.

not precision,
but body.
not mastery,
but contact.

it’s not him playing,
but more like “I not-I.”
and the music
recognizes itself
in every imprecise touch.

maybe
this is how
a true sonata sounds:
in attempt,
in jest,
in fragile almost.