GITI

I. Your silver ring burns through my skin, a brand from where your hands have been. Miles melt like wax in fire’s throat, absence carves its hollow note— the flame you left still pulls me in. What remains when flame grows thin? II. I thread your name through midnight air, braid silver light from my despair. Each whispered word, a molten thread, that binds my heart to hands long dead— love is the weight I choose to bear. What remains of silver prayer? III. The furnace in my chest still glows, though winter swallows all it knows. Your ring—a circle forged and whole— reflects the fractures in my soul; from ash, the blackest river flows. What remains when morning goes? IV. Between heartbeats, silence bends, to the place where sorrow ends. I am ember, you are air— we burn brightest when we're there, until the silver thread transcends. What remains is what love tends.