I send my voice into the void,
a whisper wrapped in longing,
but all I get is echoes back—
a hollow kind of haunting.
I light a fire, let it burn,
a beacon in the night,
but you, unbothered, turn away,
a moth that shuns the light.
I craft my words like fragile glass,
each syllable precise,
but they shatter on indifference,
left scattered on the ice.
And still, I wait—you know I will,
like tides that chase the moon,
like breathless prayers to sleeping gods
who may not answer soon.
I’ll beg the silence, bargain time,
trace patterns in the air,
but love that lingers, left unheard—
it aches. It isn’t fair.











