Here is the map of the quiet country
I have built from my own foolishness.
The air is thin.
The clocks have been unwound.
I walk backwards to the moment
the porcelain met the floor,
and I live there,
tracing the hairline fracture with my thumb,
feeling the clean, sharp edge of the break.
I have swept the shards of my voice
from the room,
leaving only the weight of the dust
as it settles.
This is my offering:
not a bridge, but the space between two shores.
Not a promise, but the turned earth,
dark and waiting for a seed.
I will stand here,
on my side of the silence,
my hands open, holding nothing
but the willingness
to let the light find them again.

-

The Hallway Between

I stand where silence has no end,
a corridor spun of neither time nor stone,
its air trembling with unseen breath—
as if the walls themselves are waiting.
(Continued in caption)

-

The old skin,
A hollow silence,
I step out.

-

The chains rust,
The gates open,
I walk on.

-

Love is not a mirror,
but a
window, to see.

-

You came to me, a quiet
humming bird,
and stayed to sing.

-

Sunlight across a sleeping face.
A cup of tea, a silent space.
I found myself, and found my place.

-

A quiet hum, a steady beat,
The same old sun, on the same old street.
I am here. Still here. I am complete.

-

I wear the past beneath my skin,
A silence stitched too tight to tear.
It grips like frost that burns within,
Unseen by those who only stare—
A war no one will ever win.

It sleeps behind my steady breath,
And wakes when all the lights go low.
No scar, but still it speaks of death,
A voice the world will never know—
Its touch as soft and sharp as theft.

Each smile I wear is slightly wrong,
A borrowed face, a brittle mask.
I’ve held this ache for far too long,
Yet no one thinks to stop and ask
Why even joy feels like a song.

-

For What Remains
Not a promise, but a mirror
that doesn’t flinch.
Not a crutch, but a quiet hand
beneath the elbow when the path
turns suddenly to dust.
It is the silence that feels like a home,
the shared breath before a laugh,
the knowing glance across a crowded room
that says, I see you. And I always have.
We built this house
without walls or a roof,
from whispered truths and clumsy forgiveness,
from the broken parts we finally dared to show.
It is a shelter
that doesn't need to be earned,
only remembered.
And for what remains—
the embers, the echoes, the quiet light—
I am still here.
You are still here.

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