No roots, no weight—adrift. A phantom mother, clutching smoke. A hollow father, chasing specters. I waited in the stillness, A shadow hunting shadows, Unknowing of the hunt.

The hands grasped for purity, Fingers bleeding nothingness, And I dissolved in the spaces between.

Drifting now, neither here nor there, Suspended in the in-between. The void hums, the box spins, The whispers of gravity never reach.

I wove a fragile cosmos, A tapestry of fragile threads. But truth, silent and unyielding, Severed the fabric from beneath.

Echoes mock me in the night, Whispering phantoms of what could have been— The unreal touch of love, The unreachable faces, The hollow mirage of unclaimed time.

If I were not me. If the mask had not cracked— But masks fracture, And what stares through is less than human.

The eyes hold absence. What was traded cannot be reclaimed, Wisdom a thief that steals what it reveals.

I thought until the thoughts unraveled me, Ran until the ground dissolved beneath. Now I linger at the edge, Waiting for the silence to shatter— But the silence deepens. And still, I linger.