There are shadows
that don’t need light to exist.

They find me
in the stillness—
no footsteps,
just the pressure of presence.

A sharpness,
like something once broken
still echoing through the body.

The pain isn’t always real.
But it’s always there.

Ghost fingers,
tight around the heart.
Scars that never bled.
Memories I never chose to keep.

I don’t speak of it.
Not because I can’t.
Because I don’t know how to name
what has no face.

But somewhere,
between each phantom ache
and the silence that follows,
a flicker stirs—
thin, but alive.

And I follow it.
Even if I don’t know where it leads.