From the desk of Lyrikai Winterhart comes a quiet offering;
a poem penned not in fanfare, but in solitude.
For all who know the hush between waves,
for those who ache beneath their bravado:

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The Shape of Silence
by Lyrikai Winterhart
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The sea speaks soft in the hours between,
Where stars forget to gleam and dreams unravel.
I drink from a cup carved of silence and salt,
And trace my name in the dark with aching fingers.

No laughter echoes in these hollow hulls,
Only the groan of timbers and the hush of tide.
I press my ear to the boards beneath my bed,
Hoping to hear a heartbeat that isnt mine.

The moon is a cruel thing; too far to touch,
Yet it watches me always, a pale-eyed witness
To the hollow place beside me in the sheets,
Where warmth once was, or might have been.

I dress my sorrow in pirate's gold
A smirk, a wink, a blade well-kept
But beneath the paint and sea-worn silk,
My soul curls inward like smoke in wind.

They think me fire, storm-forged and wild,
But flame, untended, learns to yearn-
For a hand to hold it steady in the gale,
For a voice that whispers, *I see you still.*

So I write to the silence in ink and sighs,
My words folded like sails never raised.
And somewhere, I hope, they reach a shore
Where another heart waits, just as alone.

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Let it be known-loneliness walks many decks.
But if these words find you, you are not unseen.
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Penned by my hand on the 13th of Scarlatan, in the year 979 AF.