I was shaped by a quiet ache,
a hollow that stretches with each breath,
a yearning seeded long before I had words
to name it.
There’s a pulse beneath my skin,
a slow, relentless rhythm,
like waves reaching for a shore
they’ve never touched.
It stirs at dusk,
when shadows lengthen
and the world slips into silence.
I’ve felt it, the flicker of something distant,
a glow like a match struck in darkness,
faint but alive,
a promise of warmth
in the chill of an empty room.
I dream of a place I’ve never seen,
its edges blurred, fading as I reach—
a moment that hovers, suspended
just beyond waking.
There’s a voice there,
not mine but familiar,
whispering of things yet to come,
of an end to the waiting.
The night is long and still,
its weight presses down on me,
a shroud that I wear
even in daylight.
I move through it, restless,
my hands outstretched,
searching for something
to fill the space inside.
I was born with this thirst,
a quiet, endless pull
toward the unknown,
like a moth drawn to a light
it can never hold.
And so I wander,
eyes fixed on the horizon,
chasing the faint glow that flares
only when the dark surrounds me.
I linger at the edge,
listening for a call
that I have waited lifetimes to hear.
The emptiness remains,
a companion, an old friend,
its hunger a reminder
of all the things I have yet to find.
I carry it with me, this quiet thirst,
unsated, unanswered,
as the dawn creeps in
and the world stirs to life.
