sometimes,  
    i       un-know  
        the shape  
         of self—  
               dissolve before  
                       remembering.

   i sit  
     in the ache  
     of heat,

and nothing
else.

       minutes  
                   dissolve  
   into  
          maybe hours  
or never.

drip,
  drip,
    drip,
      drip.

          (i­ can’t tell  
     if it’s dripping  
           or if i’m unraveling  
                 in rhythm.)

             thoughts            blur,  
      slide,­  
              melt—  
                        into tile grout.

i breathe —
maybe i don’t.
maybe the air is too soft to hold.

    maybe i’ve been  
                      gone  
                          thi­s whole time:

     what was i  
              thinking?
  (was i thinking?)

            just heat,         and water,  
and the pressure of something  
                    heavier  
                       ­ than skin—  
    but not quite grief,

                      not quite anything.

    and still i sit.

       and still,  
                       the faucet sings,  
             and still,  
                    no one knows  
      how quiet  
                       i’ve become.

He never left a single note.
Just rings on wood, the scent of smoke.
A door unlocked a room left bare.
A ghost still sunken in the chair.

The bottle stood, its duty done.
A quiet war that no one won.
No cries for help, no last refrain.
Just heavy air and dried-up pain.

The world still turned the clocks still kept,
No one knew how hard he wept.
And when they asked they swore he laughed
Yet all he left was hollowed glass.

The king ordered silence,
No more song, no more dace,
No more daft scratching of that pen.

So I know just what I'll do,
I'll strike him over the head with my lute,
Then he will be silent too.

I met Happiness,
On the dreary streets of this gray city,
He picked me up,
And bought me bread.

I shook hands with Love,
At times a cruel jester,
Yet it's only a cover act,
To hide his deep sadness.

I talked to Inspiration,
The man himself,
He didn't have a lot to say,
But I felt wizened anyways.

I reached out to Solitary and Silence,
But nobody knew solitaries face,
So the news studio didn't let him in,
Silence simply had no comment.

In Rome,
There is silence.
Church bells lay still,
Once grand city,
Echoing the trills of black birds.
Their song, a lost cry of those who died.
In the deathly silence,
Of the plague.

When He was born,
He cried into the void of space,
Searching for the comforting voice of calm.

But only silence returns His call,
His tears echoing of the dark edges of the dark.

But He taught Himself to walk,
How to shape something with His own hands,
Then He made a world to answer back.

They told me I was loved.
Said it like a fact, like a given, like air.
And I nodded, let the words settle on my skin
but never sink in.

Because love—love is hands reaching,
but understanding?
Understanding is knowing why mine pull away.

I sat in rooms full of people who swore they cared,
but no one asked why my laughter always came half a second too late,
why silence fit me like a second skin.

They called me beautiful, said I was smart,
but never saw the way I flinched at echoes of my own thoughts.
They held me when I cried, but no one ever asked
what the tears were trying to say.

I used to think I was ungrateful—
to have love but still feel lost.
But now I know:
Love can be loud, can be warm, can be everywhere—
and still not speak your language.

So if you’ve ever felt this way,
like you exist in translation,
like love is the ocean but you are still thirsty—
I need you to hear this:

You are not wrong for wanting more.
You deserve to be understood.