Forgotten in this echo-tight scream,  
where the air won’t carry sound  
and even grief arrives delayed.  
I tried to write my way out of it—  
but the ink dried mid-thought,  
froze inside the pen  
before it could name the wound.

My voice fossilized in the marrow  
of some unspoken ache.  
Not buried—  
just shelved in a room  
no one visits anymore.

You call it stillness.  
I call it sediment.

I trace old outlines  
like memory’s archaeologist—  
dusting off fragments  
that never fit  
but refuse to leave.

Each word weighs more than it used to.  
Each silence—  
louder than breath.