Gone now, that thunder-soft tread,

that hum of you stitched in the hush of dawn,

your shape that once bruised the skyline

like a forgotten god,

wandering between pillars of trees

that bowed only for you.

Your breath once stirred dusty pollen,

your eyes. two dusk-lit lanterns,

watched time do its quiet damage.

We built myths from your molted shadow,

drew you in crayon,

etched you into playground lore,

then brushed you away like dust.

My world feels smaller without your weight.

Lighter, yes,

but like a lie told too long.

Now, only ghosts in mud,

bones in catalogues,

your echo sold in plastic replicas

stacked under fluorescent lights.

You did not rage, nor beg,

just dwindled

beneath the calculus of progress.

We wrapped you in paper headlines,

offered thoughts,

and moved on.

Yet still...

wind remembers your cadence,

and earth, that press of your passing.

And somewhere in talking of a child’s question

that shape of you,

unspoken but still aching.