The Weight of Never

I cradled it once, a fragile sun nestled in the hollow of my chest a quiet light that promised warmth, only to dissolve in my fingers. Not stolen, not taken, only unattainable, a ghost of what could have been hanging in the corners of my mind like late autumn fog. The silence that follows is not empty; it is full of absence, a weight pressing beneath my ribs, a soft, insistent reminder that desire, once named, can vanish into the air without notice. I trace the edges of the impossible, each thought a pale echo of hands I can never hold, of roads I will never walk, of a self I will never become. 🔏. Outside, the world moves— bright, reckless, unconcerned. Inside, I remain, sitting with the frost of longing, my heart a quiet library of things that will never be read.