They follow me, the things I will never hold.
Not loud, not obvious, but steady as breath in a silent room.
They press against the walls of my mind, shadows etched where the light can’t reach, whispering the shape of a life that was never mine.

I reach for them in the dark, but my hands close on emptiness—
smoke that curls through my fingers,
air too thin to keep,
the silence that answers back, hollow and eternal.

I want love that does not disappear with morning.
Love that is not ashamed of its weight, or its permanence.
But my name was never carved into that script.
It is always written in pencil, easy to erase.

I want a voice that stays, steady as a lighthouse beam,
guiding me through storms without falter.
Instead, I get voices that flicker like dying lanterns,
burning out when I need them most.

I want a home that does not collapse beneath me,
walls that do not sag with secrets,
a table where no chair sits empty.
But I have learned that some houses are built only for leaving,
some doors are meant to slam,
some tables are laid for ghosts.

These things are not mine.
They never were.
And yet—
I carry the wanting.

It moves with me like an echo,
a hunger I cannot starve,
a shadow stitched to the soles of my feet.

I am haunted not by the dead,
but by the living things I will never touch.
The warmth I will never cradle.
The safety I will never know.

And still, the ache does not loosen.
It hums like a hymn I never learned the words to,
a prayer caught in the throat.
I am both the mourner and the grave,
the want and the absence,
a body built of all the things it will never hold.

Copyright © Wynter Rayne 2025. All Rights Reserved.