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.

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.

I keep dreaming of walking upward
not into heaven,
but into a thinner sky,
where my name peels away
like old paint on a window.
There, I am no longer a body,
just the echo of a thought
that never quite finished forming.

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

Each morning
I drag the corpse
of last night’s silence
into the light.

How foolish,
to mistake a kindness
for desire,
a glance for belonging.

I built altars
from crumbs you never meant to drop,
begged scraps of affection
as if they were gospel.

And now you’ve gone ahead,
while I am still rooted here,
watching the dust of your absence
settle into my lungs.