I’ve been chasing echoes
in the dark—
old voices,
old versions of love,
old wounds
that still know
how to call my name.
Reaching for things
that aren’t there anymore
but somehow
still feel close enough
to touch.
That’s the cruelty of echoes.
They sound real.
Familiar enough
to make you turn around,
to make you wonder
if maybe this time
something lost
found its way back.
But it never does.
It’s just the sound
of what already happened
bouncing off empty places
inside you.
And still—
I chase it.
The memory
of what was said.
The silence
of what wasn’t.
The version of people
I keep rebuilding
from fragments
because the truth
feels harder to hold.
Maybe I’m not chasing them.
Maybe I’m chasing
who I was
before they became
an echo.
Before everything meaningful
started sounding
like distance.
But the dark
doesn’t return
what it takes.
It just teaches you
how easy it is
to mistake loneliness
for something calling you home.
Through the Fog 