Loneliness seeps from pores of silence, here we are, sadness pooled together, swimming in circles inside a glass fishbowl of solitude, our mouths opening, emptying carpet bombs of words that ache in air, untouched. Wings bloom from wounds sharp as thorns, growing from pains misunderstood, each feather marked by longing, each heartbeat weighed down by shadows. In mirrors, we see ourselves bullet-ridden, ugly, yet softly, secretly, still in love with something lost, chasing after bittersweet synaptic whispers, fragile threads woven from despair. We cradle our bleeding pulse inside trembling hands, cupped to shelter a single flame, small and sacred, fighting the inevitable darkness of being extinguished. Oh, the quiet rips in our souls, aching silently beneath skin, speaking only the language of scars, waiting, always waiting for a tenderness that never arrives.