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14 
So you chose resolve you buried yourself in work because work stays when people don’t to others you sound calm they hear the quiet not the storm
You are the final character in the house walking room to room with discipline instead of despair you think you will never be truly happy you think that is strength
But beneath the armor is someone who once stood in a full house and believed the laughter would last
You are not broken you learned that time erases everything so you tried to erase yourself first
And still despite the aeons of doubt you keep turning the page.
voices filling every corner,
laughter resting on the walls
like warmth that could never leave.
Time was a book we read together,
one page turning softly each day,
morning still warm with ink,
evenings closing gently.
We thought the story endless.
But pages keep moving.
A chair empties first.
A voice fades from the hallway.
A name spoken less.
The house learns subtraction slowly,
rooms stretching wider than memory,
laughter thinning into echoes
that no longer return.
We start turning pages carefully,
as if gentleness could stop endings.
But aeons pass in moments
when measured by absence.
Not peaceful, just empty,
like a stage after the lights forget.
Dust settles where stories lived,
windows holding a quiet gray.
And you remain,
a character left behind,
fingers caught between pages
that refuse to stop turning.
So many still ahead.
So many without them.
You walk room to room
like a misplaced sentence,
touching things that remember better than you do.
The silence does not scream.
It stays.
It learns your shape.
And time keeps writing,
one page after another,
until even your footsteps
begin to sound
like someone else
once lived here.
that sorrow would outlast the sun,
and I possessed
walk still beneath that prophecy undone.
Each step an echo, cold, compressed,
in corridors where warmth forgets.
Aeons prophessed,
yet silence collects my silhouettes.
Perplexed I breathe, but not alive,
Vexed I dream, yet can't arrive.
The stars recoil, their light regressed,
afraid to touch what time’s possessed.
And in this hush of everness,
where all that’s felt dissolves to less,
I find no end, no sweet redress,
just absence wearing my old dress.