I tried to write you down,
to cage your shape in syllables
and carve your voice into stone—
but you fell through the spaces between the words,
your presence an ache I could not name.
You were the shadow
cast by light too bright to see,
the ripple left by a hand
reaching for water but finding air.
I am tethered to what is not,
chasing the echo of an echo,
a whisper that refuses to rest.
You linger where thought dissolves,
where memory curls in on itself,
a Möbius of longing.
If I could grasp you,
trace the edges of your form,
I would not.
You are not meant to be held,
only felt in the hollow
you carved into my being.
And when I speak your name,
it splinters—
a sound too heavy for breath,
too light to fall.
