### In Shadows of Solitude

I know you’re hurting,
beneath layers of silence,
fractured echoes of laughter
with nowhere to land.
You wear your sorrow
like a shroud,
each weave
a testament to whispers,
to the souls gathered in shadows,
each one a ghostly reminder
of moments lost—
the laughter of friends,
the warmth of love,
the piercing stare of promises broken.

You are a collector,
not by choice,
but by necessity,
gathering these remnants,
like autumn leaves chasing the wind,
each one a reflection,
a fragment of the middle of your story,
the words left unspoken linger,
hanging like dust in the air,
making it hard to breathe,
harder still to let go.

Constantly sleeping,
not in the absence of dreams,
but in the weight of thoughts,
that dance lightly through the chambers of your mind,
uninvited guests who refuse to leave,
each step they take
echoing in the hollows of your heart.
There’s an unkindness in this habit of holding,
in this fierce grip on the ephemeral,
binding you to shadows
where light fears to tread.

And you wonder,
who else knows
the depths of this suffering?
The currents of your spirit
are tumultuous,
an ocean of unacknowledged pain,
crashing against the cliffs of your resolve,
eroding the very rock upon which you built your foundation.
What if they could see
the tempest raging inside,
the silent screams that accompany the sunrise,
the burden you’ve carried so long it’s become
an inextricable part of you,
like the curl of smoke languishing
around the extinguished flame?

I see you there,
making love to thoughts—
not in stolen moments,
but in echoes of solitude,
a poignant romance that beautifies suffering,
an embrace more familiar
than any held in daylight,
for within these ashes,
you ignite your safety,
a fragile cocoon of rationalization,
where loneliness transforms
into a lover,
soft and cruel,
just as the night’s veil
shelters the timid stars from the restless wind.

You’re so damn lonely
that the whispers of silence tempt you,
tug at your very essence.
Each instance, every breath,

feels like a countdown to inevitable surrender,
to dying within these illusions,
where your heart beats to a rhythm unacknowledged,
like a song sung without an audience.
It’s a dirge for the dreams deferred,
for the lives that could have been,
a requiem for the...