In solitude I retreat,
a hermit seeking solace.
Depression, my companion,
wrapping me in its Melancholic shroud.

I sever threads of connection,
Words become heavy stones,
and I carry them alone.

If possible, I seek forgiveness for my withdrawal,
For it is not you I flee from,
but the tempest within that threatens to consume me.

When storms rage, I seek refuge
in the caves of my mind,
where echoes of past battles revive.

But know this, my tender-hearted muse,
Your tears are constellations,
each drop a universe of hurt.

I ache to see your face again.
Yet my hands tremble,
afraid that their touch will unravel storms.

So here I stand silent,
Know that my withdrawal is not apathy,
but a dance of desperation.

When the tempest subsides,
when I emerge from my self-imposed exile,
I'll trace constellations upon your skin, and
and whisper, "I was lost, but now I'm found."

For in silence, I seek healing,
and in your eyes, I find my North Star.