Residue

Atmospheric, elegiac, intimate.

There is a man with grief in his bones,
it moves through him like winter wind�"
quiet, constant, cutting.
Daylight blunts the edge,
but night honed it sharp again.
She was everything.
Now, absence is his only ritual.

The world keeps spinning,
vulgar in its brightness,
its laughter, its ordinary errands.
He walks through it hollowed,
carrying the weight of a rumor:
that some endings can be unwritten,
that love might unspool the thread.

So he follows whispers�"
trails smoke instead of signs,
pays with pieces of himself.
Truth becomes a currency too costly,

and madness a map he can read.
A voice on the wind beckons,
soft as ash: She is not so far.

Author's Note

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