The moon spills
its pale ruin
into my veins,
and I carry night
like a sickness
no dawn can cure.

It stains my breath
with winter’s ache,
filling my bones
with the slow collapse
of distant tides.

Even the stars
look away
ashamed to watch
what the dark
has made of me.

The moon leaves the night
to find the sun,
the sun leaves the day
to find the moon
and I stand in the shadow
they pass between them.

I weave constellations
to find the pulse of another soul,
stringing light across the emptiness
like a fragile bridge of bone.

But the sky leans in too close
and I shatter every star,
letting the darkness spill through
until even my name is gone.

You bloom
between galaxies,
a whisper in the dark
where stars go quiet.

I’ve touched you
in the petal’s curl,
in pollen floating
through forgotten light.

You were a flower
growing from meteor stone,
a garden hidden
in the hush of moons.

Each orbit,
I return.
Each bloom,
you wait.

We burned
not out of hatred
but hunger.
Not to vanish
but to become
smoke
in the same wind.

It clings
a velvet fog inside my chest,
sweet with rot,
syrup-slow and
darker than bone.

I dance,
light candles,
run toward the sun
still it hums
like a second heartbeat
that forgot how to stop.

You smiled,
and suddenly,
the night bloomed
softly
as if the stars
had always been flowers.