there was  
  no contour.  
only  
  weight.  

and the way  
  skin  
    gave way—  
like fabric  
    stretched  
      too long.

i lie down—  
  not as body,  
    but as  
      the dent  
        left in a mattress  
          after someone dreams  
            and leaves.
  

the knees  
  are not mine.  
but something splits  
  inside—  
    not pain,  
      but the hush  
        trees give  
          when they witness  
            disappearance.

a hand brushes  
  the thigh—  
not a gesture,  
  but a question  
    folded into warmth,  
      a seam of skin  
        waiting  
          to answer.

you don’t ask  
  who i am.  
your silence  
  already decides.  
and i—  
  let it.

maybe i was.  
maybe  
  i unraveled  
    before you looked.  
maybe  
  just the echo  
    stayed.

in that moment  
  between breath  
    and the pull of absence,  
i stopped  
  being  
    a name.  
i became—  
  not flesh,  
  but surface:  
    where memory  
      meets forgetting.
             like the fabric
                    that still holds
                           the shape
                                 of someone
                                            gone.


—