Carrion Silence

You never returned, only circled,
as though drawn by some cruel, invisible tether
to the wreckage of what we once were
but never could be again.
Your presence presses against my chest
like a wound still open,
unhealed,
as if time is capable of mending
when it only ever buries.
What do you seek,
in the ruins of us?
A scrap of what was pure
before it all turned to rust,
before love twisted into something
we couldn’t name anymore?
Don’t tell me it's closure—
I saw your hands pull the earth
over the body of what we had,
and now you only dig
to see if it still breathes.
Every glance you throw me
is a reminder of something
rotted,
but still too stubborn to decay,
like a corpse refusing to lie down,
its limbs twitching beneath the weight of time.
Your name feels like an anchor
pulled too tightly across my ribs—
a bruise that won't fade,
a shape carved into the skin of memory
with no intention to heal.
This is not a graveyard—
it’s the ruin of what was once a sanctuary,
a temple desecrated by the very hands
that once built and raised in it.
Now I stand within,
sweeping the dust that falls
from the rafters of a place
we were never meant to leave.
I wonder,
when you come back to look at this mess,
do you taste the rot of your own choices,
or do you still hold out hope
that the thing you buried
can be resurrected?
But you know better than that—
there’s no returning,
not from this.