Sam Riley

Sam Riley Jun 25

Forgotten in this echo-tight scream,
where the air won’t carry sound
and even grief arrives delayed.
I tried to write my way out of it—
but the ink dried mid-thought,
froze inside the pen
before it could name the wound.

My voice fossilized in the marrow
of some unspoken ache.
Not buried—
just shelved in a room
no one visits anymore.

You call it stillness.
I call it sediment.

I trace old outlines
like memory’s archaeologist—
dusting off fragments
that never fit
but refuse to leave.

Each word weighs more than it used to.
Each silence—
louder than breath.

Author Note – Calcified Ink
I wrote this from a silence that didn’t soothe—only settled. It’s the weight of words left unsaid, layered over time until even memory feels fossilized. This isn't noise. It's what remains when the echo forgets how to return.

Sam Riley Jun 24

Refrain with no cure

My heart stopped beating, but am still breathing.
Drink in my hand , but it's not healing.
You tore it out, left me on empty.
Dead inside , but my lungs keep working.
Pour another shot just to feel alive.
Every night the silence keeps me locked in this ache.
Say it's over , but your name still on the screen.
Face on replay in my mind like a ***** routine.
Tired to smoke out the pain, tried to drown out your sound.
All these faces in the crowd, but it's you I still can't drown.
I'm still alive but you took the best of me.
Left my ribs wide open where my heart used to be.
Should I text , should I call ?
Hit delete, disappear.
But you're everywhere I look when the morning comes near.
You were my everything, now am losing my mind .
Can't run from you , can't leave you behind.
Look what you made me, now I can't feel.
My heart stopped beating, but am still breathing.
Drink in my hand , but it's not healing.
You tore it out, left me on empty.
Dead inside , but my lungs keep working.
I see myself from the outside.
Hands shaking, cold, staring down another glass (so cold).
Used to want tomorrow, now I barely want tonight.
Told myself I'd let you go, but I still can't ask. Why'd you break me like that?
My heart stopped beating, but am still breathing.
Drink in my hand , but it's not healing.
You tore it out, left me on empty.
Dead inside , but my lungs keep working.
Still here, still breathing.
But I don't feel a thing.

Author Note – Refrain with No Cure
This piece was never about healing—it’s about repeating. It captures the quiet ache of being physically present but emotionally emptied by loss. The refrain echoes the way grief loops inside us, long after the person is gone. I didn’t write this for closure—I wrote it to prove I’m still breathing.

Sam Riley Jun 24

Out of the Reliquary of Broken Self

Title: Out of the Reliquary of Broken Self

I forgot the shape of my name
but not the ache it left in my mouth.

Memory fractured.
Flight stitched from ash.
Still, I flew.

Author’s Note (optional):

> This is the opening fragment of a collection shaped by memory, survival, and the silence that follows grief. Each piece stands as a reliquary—etched in ash, haunted by flight.
>
> I write not to remember, but to carry what forgetting left behind.

— The End —