You were the book I read by heart
streets of syllables, rivers of confession.
Your name was every chapter, every margin I traced.
When I turned away, the ink dried into dust,
I have lost every word I used to know
the grammar of us, the nouns of trust,
verbs that once held meaning.
Now I stand in a city without names,
its alleys hollow echoes of memory.
My hands are full of old punctuation
commas for hesitations, periods for endings,
question marks that tremble in the dark.
I am unlearning who I was:
the you-filled self, the mutual language we built, only we both can understand,
I wander in maps drawn by others,
placeless and unreal,
searching for the land i used to belong
If I find a word that still remembers you
a single syllable from dawn’s first breath,
walk until stars dissolve into light,
hoping it will guide me home,
or at least toward something that feels like me again.
