The world moves on without a sound,
as if I never lived at all—
just a shadow stitched to colder dust,
waiting for its fall.

Nothing blooms here.
Not grief, not rage—
only the slow collapse of days
stacked like rotting pages.

The mirrors refuse to answer back;
they’ve long forgotten my name.
Even my thoughts grow distant,
like echoes ashamed to remain.

______________________

Just heading back home.

Mind your own business.

Please....

________________

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