Glass Voice

I spoke in glass, so fine, so thin each word a thread of fragile sound. You touched me once, and cracked within the walls I'd built to stand my ground. You smiled like spring-like sudden thaw and I, all frost, began to break. You carved your name inside my flaw and called it love for memory's sake. You said my silence made you ache, yet never asked what silence hides. I bent until I heard the quake the shatter pulsing from both sides. Your hands were kind, or so I thought, until they traced what made me weak. You warmed the glass, then watched it rot and left just as I dared to speak. No storm. No scream. You simply stopped. You vanished like a breath in cold. My voice, now scattered, echoes dropped no shape, no song, no tale retold. Now others pass me, blind and fast, they touch and smile, but I’m not there. I live behind the ghost of glass and haunt the hallways of thin air. For if I speak, I fear the break that every word may be my end. So silence is the choice I make to hold the shards where once I’d bend.