I drift between the ticks of clocks,
Not quite anchored, not quite gone—
A shadow stretched across the dusk,
Half in the night, half in the dawn.
What is "alive" but breaths and bones,
When hearts feel carved from hollow air?
And what is "dead" but something more—
A step beyond, a lighter stare?
They say we’re here, they say we’re real,
But I feel phantomed in this skin.
Like maybe we are echoes still,
While you, the gone, have just begun.
I watch the world, it spins and screams,
But I can’t find my footing still—
Maybe this isn’t what it seems,
And “life” is just the waiting chill.
They lit your candles, sang your song,
But mine's a whisper in the grey.
I wear the silence all day long,
And speak to you in my own way.
You live where light forgets to fade,
Beyond the grasp of time or tears.
While I remain—a ghost, half-made—
A watcher counting hollow years.
But when my breath becomes a breeze,
And all this weight slips off of me,
I’ll find you in the endless ease.
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