In the still hours of night, shadows stretch thin against the walls.
The silence hums, taut strings vibrating with what isn’t broken—
a chorus of things left unsaid.
I sit within my own company, my fingers brushing the cold edge of the table,
the chill spreading through my skin like a whisper I don’t fully understand.

I hear it then: the low, simmering hum—
a sound too far to name, too near not to ache.
I want more from this life than trembling hands can hold,
each grasp slipping through like smoke laced with the scent of rain.

From the depths, a storm surges—
The highs crackle, lightning fractures the dark in brief, blinding flashes.
The lows churn, a wind thick and unrelenting, pressing heavy against my chest. 

The air swells with unspoken words, each one a weight I cannot carry—a weight I cannot escape.
To arise anew is to stand at the shore of myself,
The sands shift underfoot as the tide laps close.
A thousand lifetimes wave back at me—
each a ripple, dissolving into the endless.
I taste their salt in the air, sharp and briny,
a final trace of what once was— a final trace of what might have been.