I can feel the ghost of your breath upon my lips,
warm and fleeting, a whisper of fire and longing.
Your hands trace constellations upon my skin,
mapping the valleys, the rises, the quiet echoes of me.
But the thought of us—fragile, aching—
was already halfway to ruin,
a dream dissolving into specter,
a love too tender to bear the weight of waking.
I watch you from across the silence,
your smile deep enough to drown me,
pulling me into the undertow of your laughter,
where I forget the cold and colorless world I once knew.
You make me believe in things I should not—
that love is more than poetry,
that fools who write of devotion
are not just weaving myths for others to live.
Yet here I stand, breathless in surrender,
raising my flag not in passion but in peace.
White, not red—
for I would rather yield to the inevitable
than bleed for what was never mine.