She cradled absence in her arms,
a weight that once pulsed with life
now hollow as a crow's cry at dusk.
Her hands, once warm,
became relics of touch,
fingers curling into claws
around the void he left behind.
The house began to shift,
its walls whispering her name,
its floors groaning beneath her grief.
The crib, untouched,
grew roots of liniment,
spreading across the room like veins
hungry for her despair.
Time fractured into shards,
each second a jagged edge,
each hour a cavern
where echoes of his laughter
mocked her silence.
The mirrors refused her reflection,
offering only a pale ghost
with eyes like an empty reservoir.
Her mind unraveled,
each thought a storm
pulling her deeper into its eye.
She saw him in the corners of the room,
a flicker of light,
a phantom breath on her cheek,
gone before she could reach.
The world outside grew distant,
its colors muted,
its sounds a foreign tongue.
Her world became his absence,
a cradle of shadows
rocking her gently toward the edge.
The moon hung heavy in the sky,
its pale face watching her descent.
It whispered truths she could not escape �"
that life is a cruel seamstress,
stitching grief into the fabric of love.
And so she fell,
not into darkness,
but into a world remade by madness,
where he was everywhere and nowhere,
his memory a ghostly tether,
pulling her through the night.
She sang lullabies to the emptiness,
her voice cracking like brittle leaves.
And in her shattered mind,
he stirred �" not as he was,
but as she needed him to be,
alive in fragments of her splintered heart.
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