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.

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.

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.

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

Somewhere, the stars
mark my skin with absence,
branding me
as one no heart will claim.

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

we drift
ghosts of glass and shadow,  
fragile as the moon’s last sigh.