✉️

i’ve wrapped my heart

in quiet linen—

not silk, not lace,

but something plain,

meant to mute the sound of blood.

no more garden beds

in borrowed weather.

no more reaching.

no more rain.

i drink my coffee lukewarm now,

and nothing tastes

like longing.

i’ve grown fond

of not waiting.

fond of unopened messages,

fond of doors

that do not creak open.

somewhere in the attic,

a violin gathers dust—

once played for ghosts

who never stayed.

maybe i’m the one

who walks past locked gates

on purpose.

maybe peace

isn’t joy,

but the absence

of ache.

— Lux