I step where dusk has folded into itself,
its hem dragging silently through dust.
The air tastes of rain that will never fall,
and my name fades, untethered, in the wind.
The moon, pale as unstruck silver,
turns its face away –
I am the blemish in its light.
Once, I carried the map of home in my hands:
the smell of warm bread,
the hum of voices like braided thread.
Now every path curves back to its shadow,
every mile a question without answer.
Silence waits like a patient stone,
wearing me smooth in its quiet.
I am not lost on any compass –
I drift, unmoored, inside my own reflection.