elfin sinew
I miss her most in the coldest hush of night,
Where memories bleed like rivers of fallen stars.
Her laugh—a ghostly chime on broken winds,
Her smile—a wound that never heals,
Her voice—
A dirge etched deep in tombstones of my mind,
Whispering through the hollow corridors of thought.
I linger by the lake’s obsidian eye,
Yearning for the scent that once wrapped around my soul.
But the water’s reflection speaks in mournful tones:
It is not worth the summoning.
For when the scar is torn anew,
Death caresses gently—
Not with claws, but with velvet fingers cold.
And yet,
The flickering reels of memory
Are crueler than any grave.
-Alaric Thorneveil, "the tumult of souls in collision"