Luca

You have lived inside me like a parasite of memory,
a whisper clothed in velvet malice,
threading your syllables into the marrow of my bones.
Years have passed, yet you remain—
a residue, a revenant, a fever that will not break.

I walk beneath streetlamps dulled by fog,
their halos dimmed to a weary blur.
The air smells of iron and rain;
the gravel groans underfoot,
as though it knows what waits in the alley’s throat.
There—your silhouette forms,
ink spilled across a canvas of midnight.

You haunt me not as ghost but as echo,
a voice unkillable, multiplying in the hollows of my mind.
Your eyes—imagined or remembered—
are the last punishment of silence,
a gaze sharpened to a blade,
cutting through even the soft tissues of sleep.

I have carried you everywhere,
like contraband hidden in the lining of my heart,
like rot blooming beneath floorboards.
I feel you in the marrow,
taste you in the bitterness of words left unsaid,
hear you in the static of empty rooms.

Tonight, I unearth you.
I breathe you,
inhale the mould of your presence,
and in exhaling, I am not free—
I am only you,
made flesh again in the body of your remembering.

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