Every truth leaves a trail,
even when the night tries to swallow it whole.
Somewhere between the lies and the lull of denial,
I’ve learned to listen for the soft crunch of evidence
pressing itself into the dirt.
I walk the edge of what was said
and what was meant,
mapping the distance between both
like a cartographer of unfinished stories.
Each step hums with unanswered questions
hovering just out of reach,
like they’re waiting for the tide
to pull them ashore.
I’ve stopped chasing ghosts of explanations.
Instead, I follow the footprints
that never learned to hide themselves,
the ones that betray their shape
beneath the weight of guilt and half-truths.
The answers are always there—
quiet, patient, at bay—
rising with the next breath of morning,
ready to show me the path
I already knew by heart.