by Shana Huang

My breath grieves the veneer of 

Love lost in shattered limbs that lay beyond the

Oakwood, buried beneath wildflowers that reach for the

Stars each night as another year passes by.

Shifting through stone, my fingers are cold and

Formless, seeking out a moment as they trace splinters of 

Broken glass, searching for a time when memory was

Reality, before the last whispers of a story were written.

I see him in my waking dreams, his warmth

Radiating, soft lips saying: nothing.

I exist in this state of being— here and not

Here. I reach for his dimples, that soft smile that was

Mine, but my hands can only grasp images of the

Past, distant echoes of happiness I once had.

I am sorry. My self is not mine.

I want to be whole again, but that is impossible.

Was I ever? I do not know.

Endless questions I’ll never find answers to linger in my

Empty heart. For now, I am content with dreaming.

You don’t have to forgive me, but know that I am sorry.

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