In your eyes, dark as dusk itself, that evening drowned— the city's cry for a moon that would not rise. My heart, fertile as tilled earth, I buried at the foot of eucalyptus. From there grew golden flower. In the breathless, burning noon, its union with raw sunlight— no one turned to see. No one turns to see here. You never saw my faith. I never saw your love.
# Fading Illusion The light grows wan on the far-off hill, and shadows gather like old regrets— each one a name I've forgotten, each one a door I never opened. I watch the day collapse into itself, the way a hand unfolds, then closes, empty. The birds have gone to wherever birds go when the world grows small. There was a time I believed in staying— in roots, in names carved into bark, in the weight of a place that knows you. But illusions fade like watercolor in rain. Now I am lighter. Now I am less. The mirror shows a face I almost recognize, someone who once lived here, someone who once called this home. The mist comes early these days. It wraps around the familiar streets and makes them strange— makes them beautiful in their strangeness. I do not ask for clarity anymore. Let the edges blur. Let the names dissolve. There is mercy in forgetting, in becoming a ghost in your own life. The light is almost gone now. Soon the darkness will be complete, and I will be complete in it— a fading thing, finally at rest.
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