Undone: A Chorus Across Time #BlogchatterA2Z #poetry

Undone.0

I begin where you end. On the line between memory and mirage, your fingers still warm on my collarbone, you say nothing but your silence shatters.

I breathe in reverse, through the cracked mirror where you once watched me watch you watch me. This is not a love poem. This is a map of the fractures.

You told me my chaos had rhythm— so I let it play you to sleep. Your dreams leaked into mine, but you never stayed for the ending.

We are not symmetrical. I am molten, you are marble. You cracked but never crumbled. I collapsed, but always in color.

Remember that room? No clock. No ceiling. Just us and the echo of what we refused to name.

You called it freedom. I called it forgetting. We both meant escape.

Undo me, you whispered, so I did. And then you undid me right back.

First went the eyes. Then the words. Then my name, which you re-spelled with ellipses and what-ifs.

You carried my undoing like a sacred text— reciting only the chapters where I said yes.

I want to blame you, but your hands were steady. It was my breath that wavered.

You wrote me letters but never mailed them. I memorized your silence. It became my second language.

You told me once— the wound is where the light gets in. You forgot to mention, it’s also where the wind stays.

I dressed my ribs in your metaphors. They rattled when I ran, but I kept running.

Don’t ask me why. You already know. Because even your absence holds shape.

I carved your name into wet clay and left it in the sun. It cracked—

like we did.

Your voice still lives in the space between thunder and what follows.

I answer when no one calls, just in case it’s you, breathing through the pixels.

I’ve become fluent in ghosts. You taught me that.

I remember when your eyes said stay but your feet said otherwise.

You never left in the way people leave. You left like evaporation— silent, steady, complete.

I once swallowed your name just to keep you inside. It burned like a star, then dimmed like one too.

You always loved the abstract. So I became it. I blurred my edges, turned to mist when you looked away.

And still, I waited.

You, in your elegance of absence. Me, in my hurricane of hope.

We were a contradiction. I spoke in flames, you replied in echoes.

I stitched myself from the threads you left hanging in your wake.

I used to think you were the storm. Now I know you were just the weather.

Still, I kept a forecast of you on my tongue.

You, who never unpacked. Me, who built a city around your maybe.

Your name is still a password I whisper to locked doors.

I have built a home in this undone.

I do not fear the falling anymore.

Because sometimes, I fall back into me.

And find you there.

Not as savior. Not as ghost.

But as lesson.

And that, too, is a kind of love.

Undone.1

You unbraid the morning and I, the night. Fingers picking locks of time, threaded not by purpose, but that peculiar ache of nearly remembering what we never knew we forgot.

I open you like a drawer, loose change and old tickets, a scent of sandalwood that never belonged to me but holds me anyway. You speak in echoes and I answer in static, but still, we call this music.

Unmade bed, undone laces, your handwriting in the margins of my waking. There’s a city we built from rumors and unfinished songs, each brick a sigh, each window an afterthought.

You touch your face in the mirror, but it’s my name that fades.

Undone.2: Constellations of Time

You, the past wrapped in ribboned light, me, the present, unraveling with deliberate care. We stare at futures with borrowed eyes, measured not by clocks, but by memories that never existed— yet feel worn with use.

We echo the poets who haunt our tongues: Dickinson in your hush, Eliot in my fracture. We gather Neruda’s metaphors, salt them on our skin. I hear Angelou rise in your spine when you refuse to bow.

Whitman claps in the margins, celebrating the chaos we call communion. You light your voice with Cohen’s match, and I cup the flame, not to burn, but to see.

In the cathedral of our unmaking, I sing beneath your breath. You trace the constellations in my voice and name them ‘maybe,’ while I draw maps in your silences and call them ‘still.’

We write lines not meant to be read, only felt— like a piano heard from another room, or a letter soaked in rain, its ink bleeding the unsaid.

In this shared dissonance, we find rhythm. Not harmony— but cadence. Not resolve— but return.

We fold time like linen, soft with wear, creased with longing.

And in the final strophe of this infinite undoing, we breathe together, even if not the same air, and that, that is enough.

#Poetry #Verse #Duet #TemporalTapestry #Echoes

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