Every time, relentlessly, it's just me, alone in my own echo.

I see hope fleeting in a stranger's glance, a brief chapter in my unwritten book.

I coax the self, whispering maybe this chapter will differ,

But no,

It never does.

And with each cycle, I'm a little more worn, a little more faded.

I can't share these fragmented tales anymore.

I'm the lone scribe, the sole architect of my ruins.

In erasing these smudged lines, the paper weeps its own story of loss.

"Don't, don't," I command the void,

Yet in some stubborn corner of my mind, I dream of a fresh soul,

A new verse in this tired narrative.

But no, child,

No, child,

This journey is solitary,

A path you've been trained your whole breath of a life.

This is the final act,

You, and only you,

Navigating the remnants of a life lived in solitary chapters.