These fragile shapes—
pressed into silence like nails
into wood—hold nothing.
The ink dries,
the page itself knows nothing,
and still the emptiness waits.
I write not to remember,
but to listen.
Each word carries
the faint hum of something distant:
the voice of a child at the edge of the sea,
the soft click of a door
closing behind someone you loved.
The act itself is the prayer.
Not faith, not hope,
but a kind of surrender—
letting the words rise like smoke
from a flame
you can no longer see.
The river never stops.
It pulls everything with it—
even the weight of this moment,
even the sound of my inner voice.
But here I am,
still moving my hand
across this narrow light,
still reaching for something
just beyond what I can hold.
When the words stop,
it will not matter
what they meant.
The silence will remain,
its hands outstretched,
holding everything
I could not say.