A Shadow’s Wish

A wisp of dusk weaves through the world,

slipping into the seams of the world,

merging with the faded patterns

of a room’s quiet corners.

She steadies the unseen walls,

keeping the stage of life intact,

her voice a whisper,

soft enough to dodge notice.

She is gentle, unassuming, kind —

a wisp of breath

gliding through crowded streets,

past the glass cage of her desk,

where screens flicker

and a clock carves her days

into measured slivers.

When dusk drapes the city,

she drifts through parks,

along the edges of tides,

certain her steps leave no mark,

no ripple for anyone to follow.

Under the moon’s pale gaze,

she perches on a bench,

unseen,

riding the bus to a place

she calls home —

a fragile shelter

tucked in the chambers of your heart.

But your heart is a storm-torn house,

cluttered with wreckage

you’ve left unswept.

She wanders its jagged paths,

tripping over shards,

scraping her knees on neglect,

yet you scold her

for the blood she spills.

She lingers,

a presence you sense

but cannot name,

her identity lost

in the echoes of others’ wounds.

At times, she dreams of mending —

gathering the broken,

sweeping dust from forgotten shelves,

patching cracks with trembling hands.

As she works,

she hums a fleeting tune,

delicate as dew on morning leaves,

piercing as glass shattering in the dark,

haunting as a bell tolling

in a forsaken tower.

Her song,

a melody you’ll never voice,

catches in your throat,

trapped behind sealed lips.

She knows this heart

will never be hers,

that no amount of polishing

will make you see

the glow of what was once tarnished.

Yet she stays,

a ghost both present and absent,

a paradox of persistence

in a life that feels like a flicker.

Nothing dims her quiet resolve

to mend the ruins

and, one day,

hear you ask who she is.