The Woman In Black - Poetry

In the hush where the pines lean low and listen,

there’s a figure stitched from night itself—

a woman in black, like ink refusing paper,

like a thought you almost hold before it slips elsewhere.

She moves without sound, but the forest remembers her,

branches bowing as if they’ve seen her before,

as if she once promised them something eternal

and never came back to collect it.

I follow where the moonlight fractures on wet stone,

where breath turns to silver and doubt becomes shape.

She’s there—always there—just beyond meaning,

a silhouette learning how not to be caught.

And when I call her name, it doesn’t echo.

It dissolves.

Like it was never allowed to exist.

She turns—

and for a moment I swear she sees me fully,

not like a man, but like a confession I haven’t spoken yet,

like a wound that learned to walk.

But the closer I get, the less she is.

The air forgets her outline.

The dark rewrites itself around absence.

I run until my lungs become prayer,

until roots grab at my ankles like warnings,

until the woods feel less like place

and more like a memory that hates being remembered.

She is perfect in the way mirrors are perfect—

never wrong, only unreachable.

A beauty that doesn’t ask to be loved

because it already belongs to somewhere I can’t follow.

And then—nothing.

Just trees. Just night. Just me.

And the unbearable certainty

that I was never chasing a woman in black…

only the idea of her staying.