I am not made for tender hands,
For whispers that weave like ivy vines,
Nor for the weight of longing eyes
That search for something soft in mine.
I walk where silence holds its throne,
Where echoes fade, where stars die alone.

I have seen vows turn into vapor,
Like breath on glass in winter’s grasp,
Promises carved in stone and steel
Now scattered dust in time’s cold clasp.
What is this longing but a fleeting dream,
A fragile thread undone at the seams?

I have watched hands reach, then falter,
Fingers once fierce now limp and still,
Lips once dripping with golden verses
Now taste of rust, regret, and chill.
What begins as fire, fierce and bright,
Fades to embers swallowed by night.

No, I am not made for fleeting warmth,
Nor for the weight of tethered grace.
I am carved from quiet, dusk, and shadow,
A specter lost in endless space.
Let others chase the aching hunger,
Let others drown in a soft embrace
I stand apart, untamed, unshaken,
Unbound by call, untouched by fate.

And yet… in hours when silence lingers,
When the moon weeps silver sighs,
Something within me aches to wake,
A foolish hope that never dies.
But no—let it vanish, let it shatter,
Let it dissolve with morning’s breath.
For I am not made for this yearning,
And it was never meant for me.

.    .    .