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Alicia in E minor
I kept you in the cathedral of my silence,
behind stained-glass ribs and iron-locked teeth.
You stood in the nave of ordinary daylight,
hair the color of living fire,
laughing in chords I could never play.
I wore my confession like a burial shroud,
black velvet stitched with every unsaid word.
Each time your eyes found mine
I felt the crypt inside me open
and the cold air rush out,
but my tongue lay dead in its coffin,
a stone saint too afraid to speak.
You asked once why I always chose the shadows.
I almost told you:
because the shadows were the only place
your light could not burn me alive.
Alicia,
I built you a mausoleum of maybe,
carved your name in marble I never dared touch.
Every night I laid fresh lilies on the altar of what-could-have-been
and let them rot there,
beautiful in their decay,
the way I let my courage rot.
You left the way summer leaves October,
quietly, inevitably,
carrying the sun with you.
I stayed behind with the ravens
and the echo of a heartbeat
that still stumbles over the syllable of your name.
Now the mirror shows only a ghost in a tattered suit,
pressing bloodless palms against cracked glass,
whispering to the empty air
the single sentence I owe the dark:
I should have told you
that even ruins can love cathedrals,
and some shadows only exist
to prove how bright a flame can burn.
Alicia,
forgive the boy who mistook silence for safety.
He is learning, too late,
that the bravest thing a dead heart can do
is bleed out loud.
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