Her forget-me-not eyes,
a map of forgotten borders,
traced the land’s open wounds.
Crimson rivulets bled through
the margins of untamed fields—
each step a line she refused to erase.

The air burned with unspoken names,
his gaze a steady tether
to a world she no longer trusted.
Even his touch,
a quiet echo, could not
mend the fissures of her running.

Inside her, war assembled itself—
not with banners,
but with the slow friction
of light against shadow.
Her body bore each sacrifice,
stitched together
with the threads of her silence.

She walked, balancing the ache—
between ruin and rebirth,
celebrating not the end,
but the fragile victory
of standing still
in the trembling light.