Echoes

Silence drowns. The deafening noise of its echo forces the heart to pulse high in the throat. Every unspoken word returns swollen from the dark, dragging seawater through the lungs.

Everyone here knows what they came for

The air tastes like decisions

I can feel your eyes before I see them.

The stairs creak in apprehension, begging her not to continue. Their cries fracture and multiply through the air, each step repeating itself like an argument already lost- a final, desperate plea to the senses.

Dance, dance until you drop. There’s always room on this phantom ballroom floor, and it only costs your soul to spin here. This dance is the ritual of reopening old wounds: an endless waltz of unsent messages, remembered inflections, and conversations replayed until they lose all resemblance to truth. It is simply memory wearing grooves into itself. The orchestra never tires. It plays with missing instruments and forgotten faces. Every song sounds familiar, yet none ever reach their ending.

Still in your jacket, smells like smoke

Every word you left still sticks in my throat

Every stranger looks a little like you

I keep searching the crowd, but I never break through

The return is complete. She finds not an answer, but a ghost. For a moment I mistake her for someone else. A shimmer of the girl who believed in open skies, when horizons still looked like invitations rather than distances. Trapped behind the warped glass of memory. She is fragile, brittle, and still utterly convinced of a future that never materialized. Every breath catches on the silence where her certainty used to be.

The glow of the city’s bleedin’ into my room at 4 A.M.

Another text that I’ll ignore, another reason to pretend

That I’m fine, that I’m over it, that I’m not stuck inside this head

With all the words I wanna say and all the things that I left unsaid.

Before every horizon became another skyline, traded for streetlights and deadlines, those open skies meant something else. Before the city crowded them out. Now, that city light bleeds right through the glass, painting shadows across the walls like accusations. The same pale glow spills across the ballroom floor, illuminating the suffocating distance between who I am and who I was. It is a canyon bridged only by echoes- not memories, not truths, but the lingering shapes they left behind. Words I swore I would never speak still arrive at my door, wearing my voice.