Cala,
I heard you call my name
again and again,
but it did not move me.
The sound struck my ears
like rain against stone.
I wanted to feel warmth.
I wanted to turn back.
But nothing inside me
rose to meet you.
You gave me crowns
woven from weeds,
ribbons tied and tied again,
jars filled with light
you thought I kept for you.
I wore the crown,
I fixed the ribbon,
I carried the jar,
but each time I did
I lied.
The lie was not cruel.
It was emptiness
pretending to be love.
I watched you laugh.
I smiled to match it.
I said the words
a brother should say.
But my chest was a hollow room.
No echo.
No music.
Only walls.
You called that silence
love.
You believed for both of us.
That is the only reason
I still existed at all.
The bell chose me
long before it rang.
The priest only spoke aloud
what I already knew.
I was born for departure.
I was born for nothing.
And nothing is all I could give you.
Now you wait at the window.
You hold the crown,
you shake the jar,
you tie the ribbon tight
for someone who will never wear it.
You call me Brother.
But soon the name will blur,
your hands will forget my face,
your voice will learn
to speak without me.
Do not hate yourself
when memory fails.
I was already gone.
I was never whole.
You cannot lose
what was never here.
I am
not.
And you—
you remain.
Waiting.