I have forgotten how to speak. My tongue—once fluent in every language of ease— has curled itself into knots, a shipwrecked sailor on the shores of your name.
You do not know this, but I orbit you. I linger in the gravity of your absence, suspended in the soft glow of a message unsent, a question unasked, a silence that begs to be broken.
I tell myself: stay away, let the fever burn itself out. But you— you are a season that does not end, a song without a final note, a thought that arrives unbidden, setting fire to the stillness of my mind.
I have tried to unwrite you. To erase your echo from my hands, from my breath, from the spaces where you have never been but somehow always are.
I do not know this language. I have never been here before. And yet, I hover over your name, like a prayer too afraid to be spoken.
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