I wake to lines I swear I never wrote, ink like whispers rising from a deeper throat. Pages filled with versions of the man I hide, truth I only speak when I’m not inside. There’s a space in me that writes without my name, where the fog gets thick but the words stay sane. I vanish for a night — but he keeps going, leaving quiet sparks without me knowing. I trace the lines like footprints in the dust, signs of someone steady when I lose my trust. He walks the dark when I shut down the lights, holding my shape through impossible nights. I don’t remember writing but the meaning stays. Some parts of me survive in their own strange ways. I breathe — he listens. I fall — he learns. Two shadows trading their silent turns. And in the morning I read my own ghost, finding strength in the pieces he handles the most. Not broken — just layered. Not lost — just split. I leave myself behind sometimes… and then write my way back to it.
