A hollow bloom

She’s not healed, not whole—but the hunger isn’t for him. It’s for her.

The night envelops her as she stands barefoot on damp concrete.
Love was silent, sharp, and incomplete, like a rusty blade.

She doesn't cry.
She wears the weight of her grief for too long, dragging it behind her like a velvet train.

Although it doesn't tell lies, the mirror also doesn't tell the truth.
She continues to stare, looking for someone beneath the ruin.

Something is changing.
A rift in the cold.
A hunger for her, for color, for air, not for him.

It hasn't healed yet.
There isn't yet hope.
However, it's something.
It belongs to her as well.