a breakdown on liniarity and a void of trust, not to be understood or likend with and a pain that makes us leave eachoter with no excuse.
There was once a current that believed in direction,
a thread through the forest that hummed with meaning.
But meaning, like water, forgot its bed,
and the colors began to melt into each other —
green forgiving blue, blue devouring red,
and we, caught in their reflection,
pretended to remember the way home.
You call it a void of trust;
I call it the hour when sound becomes memory.
When you turn to speak, and the voice
is already an echo of something unpromised.
No apology left to hold,
only the pulse of leaving
folding back into light.
