The glass weeps first,
its surface swelling, a tidal ache
of what I could not say.
My face ripples,
a wound unwound,
a thousand silver petals shattering
against the silence of your name.

I drank the world tonight,
its bitter roots blooming
under my tongue.
Colors swarmed, fever-bright,
and the flowers beneath my feet
began to whisper—
all their petals
were made of your breath.

I see you in shards,
a thousand years gone,
your eyes like black pearls
waiting to drown me.
I reach for forgiveness,
for the hand I killed
with my waiting,
but the mirror
holds only its tears,
and my reflection bleeds.

Adorned in trinkets,
hollow stones that wink and glare,
I journey onward—
a pilgrim of regret,
wearing evil eyes like prayers
for the dark.
The gemstones hum,
an elegy,
and the road swallows my feet
as though it knows
I will never turn back.

The flowers grow brighter now,
their roots twisting into my skin.
I feel the earth shift—
a tremor,
a message:
Forgiveness is a ghost
that speaks in riddles,
a sign that blooms
only when the mirror
finally breaks.