I CARRIED HER THROUGH THE VOID

I CARRIED HER THROUGH THE VOID

I carry her… Smoke burns, weeds sting my eyes, madness without end. A city on the edge, glass in her heels, steel beneath my nails — the scent of disappearance, helplessness, fear that speaks in silence around us.

I carry her, the weight of her body, her shadow like a vow. I will never let her go, not even when the hands of hatred turn into nails, not through blizzards, rain, or death. My hands are rough — shaped by sea and soil, hair heavy — with wind, smoke, unspoken words.

I carry her through silence, louder than everything. Asphalt peels, facades collapse, footsteps lose meaning, heavy boots lag behind, sirens howl, metal beasts — a city that does not forgive.

I carry her through forests, ash, tunnels, myself. Stranded, with the taste of burnt bridges. Wormwood won’t grow, ivy won’t climb, nettles stay silent under windows without glass. The city devours history. The sun pierces holes, illuminates wounds — and her silence.

Golden scaffolds rise, gods call, but I go — forward. With you. I breathe slowly. There is no up, no down. A moment breaks inside me. Her words — dry flowers, mine — rain on mud. The city hums, whispers to a hope that bears nothing. A beginning is awaited that never comes. I am pulled by the edges. I want the end, with my forehead clenched, above the thorns, with her, in a wounded heart woven from pain.

The scaffolds rise again, rusted and thin. I climb. The moon cold, white, she touches it. The moon weeps, holds her silence, it is hers again. When she closes her eyes — the sun arrives, vast, strong, shattering shadows. Walls crack, roofs sweat. Sinking — I rise, in water. The city washes itself for the first time.

Exhale is dust. Breath is life. I carry her, still. To the end. We are at the center of the world. I see a new beginning — a beginning toward home. Our home, beyond all others, distant and tender, far from those I mocked in my dreams. I carry her silence — the most precious gift.

Angoulême, 2025.