The wind drifts through the valley
as if I were never carved from dust.
It brushes past my shoulders
like I am a tree it's already passed
a thousand times.

Once,I believed it whispered
in the syllables of my breath,
a companion that knew my edges-
now,it scatters my shadow
like loose paper across concrete.

I shout into its current,
but it carries nothing back.
No echo.
No curve of recognition.

Even the leaves
turn their backs to me,
rustling in languages
I no longer understand.

Was I ever more than a pause
in its long forgetting?
A hush between storms,
too soft to be remembered?

Still,I stand,
not waiting for return-
but watching how even silence
moves with purpose.