A Whistle in the Dark

I was a whisper,

a breath between pages,

a name scribbled in the margins

of someone else’s story.

Then you came—

a constellation of fire and longing,

your voice a whistle threading through the nightfall,

unraveling the edges of my silence.

I thought marriage would be a lantern,

a dream woven in golden filaments,

but love is not a fairy tale

when the ink stains bleed

through the parchment of our promises.

Instead, I became a spider,

spinning delicate lies

between the rafters of our home,

stitching together the gaps

where your words used to be.

Each night, I crawl into bed

beside a ghost wearing your face.

I reach for warmth

but grasp only the cold remnants

of something I once knew.

Your laughter, once the ember

that lit up my ribcage,

has turned brittle,

cracking against the walls

like a dying moth.

The dreams I once carried—

soft, feather-light—

now hang from my shoulders

like broken wings,

too heavy to lift,

too shattered to mend.

You were the sun,

and I, the one foolish enough

to stand too close,

believing I could hold fire

without burning to ash.

Now, all that’s left

is the quiet sound of unraveling,

the hush of my own shadow

folding into itself,

and the ache—

deep, marrow-deep,

a sorrow that lodges itself in bone

and refuses to be dislodged.

Tell me, love—

when did we stop flying?