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.
Apr 24, 2025
Apr 24, 2025 at 5:06 PM UTC
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.
With you
