How could you fracture sacred ground, Then curse the echoes for their sound? You wore the sun upon your face, Yet left me stranded—void of grace. How could you harvest what I grew, Then salt the earth and call it true? You drank the rain from shattered jars, And claimed the light while birthing scars. How could you walk through all my storms, Then flinch when I outgrew your forms? You traced my ribs with frost and flame, Then turned to dust when I spoke name. How could you claim to know my shade, Then vanish when the sky decayed? You broke the hush I once held close— Tell me, love... how deep it goes?