into the night she slips unseen,
with thoughts that hum like distant machines.
sleep comes soft, a silent tide,
where broken dreams and shadows hide.

“this too shall pass,” they always say,
but echoes tell me it will stay.
i twist, i cry, i burn, i ache.
how many times must one heart break?

beneath the limbs of the old oak tree,
i mourn the girl i used to be.
the sun still rises, the robins sing,
and somewhere, hope begins to cling.

with baggage packed and passport near,
i chase the world, outrun my fear.
so love me fully, or let me flee,
but don’t half-choose a soul like me.

i say that, but the truth is,
i don’t even know if i’d choose me.
not like this,
when i am but a half-hearted poet,
writing, not to feel, but just to keep silence out.

this isn’t closure.
it’s just the end of a sentence i got tired of writing.

there’s no poem here;
just habit. to fill space.
to mimic motion
in the shape of grief.