Nights unspool, threadbare and unspoken,
folding inward like paper never meant to be read.
Air thickens in the absence of weight,
a vacant gravity pressing against nothing.

I have stood inside mirrors that did not hold my shape,
watched glass ripple as if swallowing an afterthought.
Footsteps dissolve before touching the ground,
syllables decay before finding a mouth.
Sound moves, but not toward me.
Light bends, but does not stay.

They have names for the things I am not.
Soft words, dulled edges,
a kindness wrapped in misunderstanding.
But I have walked long enough to know
the difference between being unseen
and being erased.

Laughter hums in frequencies my bones do not carry,
a hymn for voices unfractured,
for hands that do not slip through their own grasp.
I have traced its outline, memorized its resonance,
a song played beyond a locked door.

Happiness is a language spoken in another room,
a warmth that does not cross thresholds,
a breath I have never drawn.
It moves past me like mist"
seen, felt, gone.

I have worn every shape, every silence,
have bent myself into something easier to hold.
But some voids do not hunger for filling,
some absences are not waiting to be undone.

If I reached for help, the air would take my hand.
If I vanished, the dust would not stir.
If I was meant to be more than a flicker,
the world must have long since turned the page.