In the dim lit corners of my mind, shadows coil like serpents, a pulse, a beckoning, each flicker of the candle, drawing me deeper into the night. Tracing the outlines of your face, etching your name on my skin, a tattoo of longing, each letter a thorn, each breath a shiver, cold as the grave.

In this room, walls pulse with whispers, air thick with your scent—a bitter-sweetness, like rain on rusted metal, and I drown in it, my heart a pendulum, swinging between sanity and madness.

The clock ticks, but time distorts, shatters like glass against the floor, and I gather the shards, pressing them to my lips, willing the taste of you to cut deeper, to bleed into the void.

I am a moth, drawn to your flame, wings singed, and yet, I cannot resist— the allure of your darkness, the promise of annihilation, a sweet release from the weight of this relentless hunger.

In the stillness, I hear the echoes of my own heartbeat, a dirge for the lost, and I wonder, when did love become this cage, this suffocating embrace that holds me hostage to your ghost?

As night deepens, I stand at the edge, a precipice of revelation—the truth, a blade, sharp against my throat. I am not bound to you, but to the shadows, the obsessions that twist and coil like smoke, and I breathe them in, unwilling to exhale.