The Echo That Remains

There was a time when I spoke with a voice 

that filled the room before I even entered it— 

when my spirit fit me like skin; unapologetic and whole. 

But somewhere between the breaking and the becoming, 

I misplaced my weight. 

Not the kind you shed— the kind that grounds you. 

Now I walk with echoes where substance once occupied. 

I am a relic, the vestige of everything I’ve survived, 

and everything I surrendered to cling to life. 

But don’t confuse my quiet for defeat. 

Don’t mistake my emptiness for absence. 

Even the sea withdraws before it returns in waves. 

I am not less— I am paused. 

Dormant like winter soil that holds the blueprint for spring. 

And though I may seem half-faded and half-forgotten, 

I am still made of every light that once lived in me. 

I am still listening for the sound of my own name 

called by a voice that feels like home. 

There is hope in my bones yet— 

though hushed and curled up in the corners of my ribs, 

It will be there waiting for me. 

Like daybreak peaking behind the mountains 

knowing the dark is only temporary, and I— 

I am not done. 

I am not done;