Fragments of the Infinite

I.

The wind howls without vowels,
its consonants splintering across the concrete—
a foreign tongue I almost remember.
The walls breathe,
exhaling echoes of past whispers,
and I wonder if they ever held
the weight of your words.

II.

The city unfolds itself like an endless letter,
its streets folded into tight origami pleats—
each corner a question,
each shadow a misplaced punctuation mark.
Here, in this labyrinth of neon veins,
I chase after phantoms
of possibilities untamed,
their footsteps dissolving
into the hum of forgotten electricity.

III.

Yesterday, I spoke to a bird perched on a wire,
its wings like torn pages from a burning book.
I asked it about the sky,
and it laughed in monochrome syllables.
Do you remember how we once read clouds?
Each formation was a prophecy,
a kaleidoscope of futures
we were too reckless to follow.

IV.

Time slips through the cracks in my hands—
no, not cracks,
but rivers carved by restless tides.
The clock on the wall sighs,
its hands tangled in themselves,
and I count minutes backward,
trying to unspool the thread
that once stitched us together.

V.

Do you recall the songs we sang
to the broken edges of stars?
They danced for us once—
fractured light reflected
in puddles of yesterday’s rain.
Now, the stars are silent,
their edges worn smooth
by the gravity of our forgetting.

VI.

I wandered into the woods of my mind,
roots curling like clenched fists around memories.
Each tree whispered your name
in the dialect of longing,
but my tongue stumbled
on the sharp syllables of regret.
I tried to climb,
but the branches turned to wire—
barbed and unyielding.

VII.

In the mirror, I see fragments—
a mosaic of what could have been,
sharp edges juxtaposed
with soft shadows.
You were the missing piece,
the negative space
that gave shape to the whole.
And now,
I am a puzzle left unfinished,
scattered across a table
that no one remembers.

VIII.

Silence grows here,
a wildflower blooming
between cracks in the floorboards.
It carries your scent,
that unnamable essence of somewhere else.
I try to trap it in jars,
but it slips through the glass,
a ghost refusing captivity.

IX.

There is a little of you in my mornings—
the sunlight through fractured blinds,
a warmth that almost feels
like homecoming.
And a little of me lingers
in the folds of your absence—
a shadow stretching beyond its source.
We are echoes
of a song sung in halves,
harmonies searching
for their lost counterparts.

X.

A little of you in me,
a little of me in you,
and the universe shifts,
a kaleidoscope turning once more.
Let’s recreate the magic in life,
thread the stars back into their constellations,
find the rhythm in broken clocks.
Wherever you are,
wherever I am,
this world is still big enough
for us to meet
in the spaces between breaths.

#Poetry #UnconventionalArt #FragmentsOfTheInfinite #RecreateTheMagic #PoetryOfLonging #ExistentialJourney #SoulConnections