Beyond the glass where silence hums,
the sun’s sharp fingers graze the cold.

You take your place in warmth’s embrace,
yet trace your grief in brittle lines.

With every stroke, a world unfurls,
lifeline drawn for unsweetness life.

But I, a coward to your gaze,
turn elsewhere lest I drown in you.

For but a breath, the crows took flight,
mistaking sorrow for a feast.

Between your pages, I find my grip,
yet still, you slip through trembling arms.

You conjure echoes of a past,
where paths once met but never stayed.

I pressed your face in paper’s spine,
between the words of hell and home.

To name you love, I’d lose myself,
and call you mine to die alone.