If loneliness were a flower,
it would bloom—only to fade.
But loneliness is a root,
threaded through my marrow,
never withering, never yielding—
lingering in my ashes, in my bones.
This vacant, fractured vase
haunts the quiet corners of time,
a shadow no wave can wash away,
woven into every togetherness,
into the crowded vacancy
of still life.
