Your hand in mine, a fragile weight,
a thread unraveled, pulled too thin.
The clock still moves, the seasons change,
but time won’t weave you back again.

I speak your name, the air stands still,
as if it dares not let you go.
But silence hums a bitter truth—
some echoes fade, some rivers flow.

So take this breath, this fleeting glance,
before you slip into the past.
For love remains, though you depart,
a haunting ache that’s meant to last.

The water rises, slow but sure,
it takes my breath, it grips my skin.
I reach for land, a saving shore,
but waves pull tight and drag me in.

My voice is small, a hollow sound,
it breaks like glass, it fades like mist.
No hands extend, no rope comes down,
the world moves on—I don’t exist.

I see the sky but can’t touch light,
I dream of wings but feel the chain.
And so I sink, and so I stay,
a body drowned beneath the rain.

If I should vanish, will you know?
Will echoes trace where I have been?
Or will the years, like melting snow,
erase the shape of what was seen?

A name dissolves upon the tongue,
a photograph turns pale with dust.
Once voices sang where silence hums,
once love was more than scattered rust.

The walls forget, the sky moves on,
the earth still spins without my name.
And though I whisper, hold me close,
I fear you’ll never do the same.

I placed my faith within your hands,
each promise carved in sacred stone.
Yet time has turned them into sand,
and now I stand here, lost, alone.

You spoke in silk, in honeyed air,
but all your words were woven lies.
A dagger laced with love and care,
hidden well behind your eyes.

I stitched the wounds, I bit my tongue,
still tasting rust, still breathing ache.
Some ghosts may haunt, but you, my love,
you chose to watch me break.

The clock does not beg for mercy,
it does not weep, it does not wait.
It carves its mark with steady fingers,
seals the doors and locks the gate.

Once, the summers felt unending,
once, my hands were small and free.
Now the wind hums distant warnings,
pulling petals from the tree.

Faces blur like water ripples,
names slip through like autumn air.
All I love will turn to memory,
and time will never learn to care.

Once, I knew the name I bore,
wrote it bold on every door.
Now, the letters slip like sand,
fading soft beneath my hand.

My laughter echoes, strange and thin,
a song that doesn’t sound like skin.
My dreams grow pale, my voice runs cold,
a story lost, a tale untold.

I am the waves against the stone,
slowly worn and left alone.
A whisper lost, a shadow worn—
a being half, a self outworn.

I loved you in a way you’ll never know,
a silent tide, a hidden glow.
A candle flickering in the rain,
burning bright despite the pain.

Your name lived softly on my tongue,
a melody I left unsung.
My hands reached out, but not too far,
too scared to grasp a falling star.

And so, I watched, and so, I stayed,
a love unspoken, left to fade.
Not by you, but by the hour
that let me bloom, but not in flower.

I scrub my hands, the color stays,
a crimson thread through all my days.
No river drowns, no fire burns,
the past still twists, the memory turns.

Their voice still lingers in the air,
a fading ghost, a hollow prayer.
I trace the steps I can’t erase,
shadows whisper, time won’t chase.

The mirror sighs, it knows my name,
a hymn of blame beneath its breath.
And though the world still spins the same,
I bear the weight—I wait for death.

Footsteps echo through empty halls,
a voice left speaking to the walls.
The sun forgets to warm my skin,
the air is thick, the world wears thin.

I reach for hands that don’t exist,
fingertips brush the air in vain.
Laughter drifts from distant streets,
but silence sings my name again.

The night hums low, the moon stands tall,
but I have no one left to call.
My words dissolve, they go unread—
a story told, but never said.

I laid my hands upon the altar,
knuckles bruised from silent prayers,
whispers turned to fleeting echoes,
lost among the empty air.

I built you bridges out of marrow,
stitched the stars into your sky,
gave you light when nights were hollow,
yet you never asked me why.

My name fades in nameless hours,
scattered like the autumn leaves,
a monument of quiet labor
built for those who never grieve.

And still, I stand, arms outstretched,
woven from the threads of care.
The world moves on—I disappear,
a ghost who gave, yet none were there.