I draw maps on the inside of my skin,  
inked in the color of vanishing.  
Here lies the boundary of what was ours,  
eroded by the tide of unspoken.  
The compass spins, untethered,  
its needle trembling toward absence.  

Do you hear the silence?  
It is not quiet—  
it claws at the air,  
each gasp a hymn to what’s been torn.  
The walls hum with the echoes of us,  
a dissonant symphony,  
the architecture of breaking.  

You left your shadow folded neatly,  
tucked in the corner of my ribcage.  
I wear it like a second heart,  
beating out of time,  
a phantom rhythm that sways  
to the cadence of your departure.  

The sky is a wound tonight,  
its dark edges stitched with stars,  
each pinprick of light  
a question I can’t stop asking.  
The moon doesn’t answer,  
its face turned away,  
familiar as grief, distant as god.  

And what of the map I made for you?  
You’ve burned it—  
I smell the ashes in my dreams,  
see the charred remains in the curve of my palm.  
Still, my fingers trace the routes,  
as if I might find you  
in the spaces between now and never,  
as if I might follow the lines  
to the horizon where
You  
and this world  
could have coexisted.

A world to forget me,
A world to forget the sullen days,
Forget the days of euphoria,
The days of wild exultation.

Forget the anger that consumed me,
Forget the fallen tears,
Forget the tears that never fell,
The confusion,
The world I left inside my head.

For I live my life in a snowglobe,
Walking in circles,
Erasing my every step with falling snow.

Forget me,
Like footprints left in a blizzard,
I'm to be forgotten,
And gone by spring.

Forget me.

A silhouette drifts through the mist,
shaped by memory but not quite there—
a figure lost between the spaces
where time forgets its own name.


Wings flutter, soft as dust,
stirring the silence in slow breaths,
like the whispered promise
of something never meant to be.


The air is thick with the weight of nothing—
a presence that slips through your fingers
before you can hold it,
before you can understand.


In the distance, a song plays,
but its notes are hollow,
echoing through the vacant spaces
of a forgotten world.


It is as though the fairy exists,
but only in the spaces where eyes do not see,
where dreams and memories fold together
like forgotten pages,
and everything is both real
and utterly lost.


You reach for the hollow light,
but it fades before you touch it,
leaving only the scent of something once pure,
a trace of something you can never claim,
floating away
into the quiet dark.

A whisper soft—across the vale,
Where Rona Mae Ronda treads—
Her footfall light, a breeze’s tale,
Through meadows gold—she spreads.

No need of day—her presence brings,
A twilight soft and kind—
With every step—a thousand springs,
Awake in heart and mind.

The daisy turns—her face to see,
As Rona Mae Ronda glides—
Through clover fields—so carelessly,
Where innocence—abides.

The robin pauses in his flight,
To hear her laughter’s sound—
For Rona Mae—by day or night,
Turns all to sacred ground.

She leaves no trace—yet all can tell,
Wherever she has been—
The very air—begins to swell,
With what the soul—has seen.

:: 08.12.2024 ::