Silence settles in the skull
a lake undisturbed,
but the inkless pen trembles,
fearing this calm
is the last sound it will ever know.

Agony brands me
in fire’s alphabet
letters carved so deep
they cannot be erased.
But numbness
writes nothing
and I vanish
unrecorded.

A thousand hands of absence
crawl my spine at night,
reminding me
the grave is never sealed.

I fold conversations
like brittle paper,
pressing creases
into apologies
that never quite align.

Every goodbye
is a frayed thread
I knot with trembling teeth
but the fabric still unravels,
and my leaving
bleeds ragged.

The moon pours ink
into my lungs,
I wake
choking on stars.

I was shaped
by quiet exits
ghost-thin teachings
folded into my bones:
leave before the light asks you to.

They called it love
this soft undoing,
this art of becoming
less.

So when your hands
did not let go,
I heard
the breaking of ritual.

And trembled
a shadow
mistaking warmth
for fire.

The moon melts into my trembling hand
a lantern dripping liquid stardust.
Stars hiccup slow, spilling galaxies
across my tongue like sparkling syrup.
My feet dissolve into comet tails,
and gravity forgets its name,
letting me float sideways through syrupy nebulae,
where hiccups are constellations
and the night hums a dizzy lullaby.

Whether carved from stone or spun from light,
every heart bends and cracks,
its pieces spilling like broken planets
into the gravity of empty space.

your name rots
in my mouth.
still, it grows vines
that strangle my tongue
when i try to forget.

your laugh
plants sunflowers
in the cracks
of my tired morning.