i follow hollow roads
through streets that ache beneath my feet
we feign in dance together
holding strings pulled tightly between us
so thin they could break
with one wrong movement
and i repeat this motion endlessly
like habit carved into bone
not broken by weakness
but by the exhaustion of carrying feeling
for too long
whispers drift through time
echoes of a man lost somewhere
between understanding and becoming
between what this is
and what he hoped it could be
i find myself living there
between what could happen
and what already slipped away
maybe that is all life really is
movement
constant movement
people brushing past one another
trying to hold meaning
long enough for it to leave a mark
we escape into desire
into the memory of older nights
times we frolicked carelessly
before fear learned our names
before silence became easier
than honesty
and i repeat those memories often
turning them over in my mind
like a treasure chest buried so deeply
it no longer belongs to the earth
but only to me
small enough now
to fit into the palm of my hand
these wrists can only carry
so many memories before trembling
the ash settling into skin
the way fire burns quietly at first
before consuming everything around it
some wounds never scream
they smolder
deep beneath the places
we tried hardest to leave them behind
nails against a chalkboard
eyes adjusting to darkness
dice shattered by force
chance destroyed before it could speak
and we throw ourselves into life
recklessly
uncontrollably
as though destruction itself
might somehow prove we existed
but maybe that is life sometimes
just force
just movement
broken bones healing crooked
wet hands from crossing rivers
we were never certain would lead anywhere
still
we crossed them anyway
because something inside us
would always rather drown searching for meaning
than stand untouched on the shore
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