whispers #

with a heavy heart dragging my feet,
i roamed the city at midnight, chasing shadows.
the park stretched ahead, an abyss of quiet,
music in my ears, but no song could save me.

then i saw him—this boy, this strange man—
hair like spilled ink, brown eyes hiding storms.
he whistled, casual as hell, each step a note,
and somehow, he was steady where i was breaking.

we didn’t speak. the silence swallowed us whole.
the night took the lead, guiding our awkward dance.
then i tripped—of course i fucking did—
and he was there, pulling me back from the fall.

so i spilled it, all of it, my whole damn life—
the fears, the failures, the mess i call me.
he didn’t flinch, just listened, calm as death,
and when he spoke, it was like stitching a wound.

“that’s where i died,” he said, pointing out
some damned corner of the dark.
his words made my blood grow cold,
but his eyes—damn, his eyes held something softer.

still, he smiled, a cracked sort of grin,
and patted my arm like we’d known each other forever.
“shit happens,” he said, “but remember this:
floods drown, yeah, but they leave soil fertile as sin.”

he told me to sing when the world turned to ash,
to call the faeries, though i couldn’t see them.
“they’ll show up,” he said, “even if you think it’s all a joke.
just keep singing—scream if you have to. they’ll hear.”

years have passed, and i still sing like a fool,
when life feels like a punch to the gut.
i never saw him again, that boy, that ghost,
but his words are branded in me,
a fucked-up kind of hope i can’t let go.