There comes a night when the stars forget your name
when even memory grows tired
of holding you up like some half-finished prayer.
Every joy you ever touched
turns brittle in the wind,
and every face that once lit your horizon
blurs into a gray, indifferent dusk.
You walk through your own story
like a ghost who knows the ending—
turning each page slower,
hoping this time the fall won’t come,
that maybe the ink will forgive you.
But it doesn’t.
The words stay etched
in the cruel precision of what was:
the choices you made,
the hands you didn’t hold,
the silences that rotted into years.
Life becomes a museum of what you meant to do.
Each breath—a relic.
Each heartbeat—a sermon on failure.
And still, you linger,
because even ruin has a rhythm
you can’t stop dancing to.
You tell yourself it meant something once
the laughter, the love, the reaching.
But meaning has long since slipped
through the cracks in your palms,
and all that remains
is the ache of being awake
in a story that no longer wants you.
So you sit in the ashes of your own legend,
listening for the sound
of anything beginning again.
But only the wind answers
whispering your name
like an elegy
to the life you almost lived.
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