His ghost sings softly, a broken lullaby,
burned into my eyelids, shaking whispers,
aching silence, like a thief of dawn
stealing breath from sleeping cities.

He moves restless through veins
poisoned by words unspoken,
shattered truths scattered like ashes,
dancing wild through toxic winds,
political nightmares devouring dreams.

His touch rough, aged like driftwood,
voice cracking open ancient doors,
bridges torched by reckless kisses,
healer and wounded, prophet undone,
hallucinating at the edge of night,
tongues tangled in unknown prayers.

She wanders like a gypsy star,
feeding off his sorrow, sharing ache
in silken melancholy, children smiling
innocently at illusions blossoming
in skies suspended, palaces of air,
golden cornfields swaying blindly.

The sudden crush of metal, breath lost,
belt marks branded, lungs crushed,
pain defined him clearly, brutally
etched inside city bones, illusions
layered thick, devotion bleeding quietly,
belief hidden in oyster shells,
galaxies spiraling slowly, secretly
inside his fractured core.

The sea cracks open, a gaping wound,
pulling me under with salted hands.
The night peels back in slow-motion silence,
a whisper of footsteps that never turn back.

Charms rattle against my skin,
cold prayers for a god who never learned my name.
The bottles at my feet, their throats gaping,
mock the thirst that never drowns.

High tide, high eyes, waiting for the sting,
while you press your lips to someone else’s sin.
Go on, tear me apart, leave the pieces for the painted faces,
saints with peeling halos, judging from above.

I feel it—
the shame, the weight, the final hush,
as the tide takes me whole.

Clouds curl, bruised whispers
skies changing colors again—
nature twists like fingers on piano keys
I’m tangled in a corner of myself.

When your silence bites,
I don’t know if I’ll bare my teeth
or fold inward
like paper dolls collapsing
under summer rain.

We're floating in the space
between "stay" and "run,"
holding breath underwater—
neither surfacing nor drowning,
a little unsure of which we fear more.

You pull close,
then release,
moon cycles of embrace and retreat—
each goodbye echoing softly,
a note lingering, unresolved.

Escape calls louder than home;
running is my oldest song.
Yet your open palm
makes me pause,
hovering mid-flight,
just above your fingertips,
wondering
if gravity could hold me this time.

I was born water,
shaped by shifting currents,
aching beneath skin too thin,
eyes wide open to worlds always leaving.

Father, you were a storm trapped in bones,
hands heavy with silence,
every word unspoken a bruise,
my smiles stitched from glittering lies
to make you believe I was gold.

Mother, your heart swung like a pendulum
between rage and tenderness,
promising warmth while you taught me winter,
running away as if love was wind,
never landing softly where I stood.

Trust became a broken map,
paths always folding back on themselves,
everyone changing their story
without telling me why,
judging my scars from safe distances.

Now loneliness wraps around me
like old clothes, comfortable yet threadbare,
dreaming still of belonging
to something gentle,
something true.

Tonight I carry pebbles in my pockets,
each stone a silent apology
or a love I never knew,
walking slowly toward water,
ready to become river again.