We wove a brief tapestry, golden and tight,
In the hush of the morning, the heat of the night.
He spoke of a future, he promised the stars,
While healing my ghosts and my oldest of scars.
But the moon shifted phase and the calendar turned,
While the fire he ignited still feverishly burned.
Then came a Tuesday, a silence, a chill,
The house grew cavernous, the hallway grew still.
Now I walk through the town where we once used to roam,
But the streets feel like strangers, no longer a home.
I ask of the neighbors, the shopkeep, the peer,
But the answer is hollow: “No one was here.”
There is no paper trail, no shadow, no sign,
No ghost in the garden, no name on the line.
The void is so perfect, the erasure so deep,
It feels like a secret the universe keeps.
As if he were woven from water and air,
A trick of the light, a desperate prayer.
The memory remains, though the evidence fled—
A man who was everything, yet never was read.
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