A Tripping Balance

Black and grey— half-dead, half-forgotten, etched in silence, waiting. Thou to draw, thou to withdraw, tracing echoes, tracing the traces, cursed yet, blessed. Now, I sit, tracing the scars of the ruby, fingers brushing against old omens in the reflection’s cold embrace. (I know the echoes all too well— for I am the one who breathes life into the melancholies in my head.)