A thought is born, a silent flash, leaving no trace nor mark upon the air. But when its thread grows thin and rash, an abstract breath sucks it to despair.
It is not oblivion that fades or dissolves, but an inner echo where secrets revolve, an air that coils within vaulted folds, where every form once more did belong.
And remains a fragile coldness, a scent, of what has been, but warmth is now spent. A dense absence, not born of pain’s sting, but of its own intact, interior spring.