The cup of tea
sat cold on the table,
I waited for her,
but the chair remained empty.

I wore my heart like heavy armor,
Fighting shadows, none of them true.
Quixotic in my relentless fervor,
A soldier lost in skies of blue.

We were almost something—
almost a story,
almost a memory,
almost a beginning that never began.

It’s funny how “almost”
can hurt more than “never,”
because at least “never”
doesn’t pretend it had a chance.

But we—
we were a heartbeat away
from being real,
and sometimes,
that’s the loudest echo of all.

Willow limbs susurrate in clandestine murmurs,
brushing the lake’s gouache-green reflections.
Beneath—jellyfish effloresce, spectral inhalations,
ghost-thin, unmoored, drifting toward oblivion.

Dandelions unravel, golden tendrils severed,
carried off in the lungwork of wind.
A musk rose lingers—feral, aching,
its scent curling like unshed weeping
beneath the hush of twilight’s jaw.

Chevy lilts down arteries
stitched in coral marrow,
leather still inked with your laughter,
your dark brown eyes—
blackwood, abyss, a gravity
I would fall into, fracture utterly..

Et pourtant, je t’attends, infiniment.

And in this risette of evening,
where sky spills into sea, salt-lipped, weeping,
I wait—
soft, surrendered, affetuoso,
a note held past silence, raw, humming.

They spoke my name in tongues of dawn,
before the world was cast in hues—
before the red could kiss the rose,
before the sky first bruised to blue.

I was the shimmer ‘twixt the stars,
the breath between the night and morn,
a hush of light not seen nor mourned,
a ghost where spectrums are stillborn.

The prisms wept, but left me void—
a sigh unbent by mortal sight,
a whisper lost to time’s embrace,
unwoven from the loom of light.

Yet once, I danced on dreaming lids,
in eyes that dared to look beyond,
but now—I pale, unseen, unknown,
a phantom shade, a severed bond.

So tell me, when your colors fade,
when all grows dim, and light departs,
will you recall the one who lingers—
the color buried in your heart?

I thought I could outrun the weight,
but the burden was never mine—
like a passenger begging for control,
but only the crash was waiting,
and I didn't even scream.

Not the butterfly—
never the butterfly.

Only the delirium.
The fever of pursuit.
Wind-lashed laughter,
sun slitting gold across our skin,
hands slicing through hush,
through emerald ghosts.

Wings—silk, smoke,
breath—a ghost kiss,
vanishing.

We ran.
We ran.
Color hemorrhaged between our hands.
The sky swallowed it whole,
left nothing but,
the aftertaste of wanting.

Was it ever the capture?
Or the almost,
the ache of flight just out of reach—
like trying to pocket a mirage,
like teaching the wind to stay.

Years fold.
Silence swallows.
Love like wings,
dreams like dust,
fingers still cupped around air,
as if emptiness could be held.

We chase.
We lose.
We call it living.

Glass-winged moths hover,
opal figs drip milky dusk,
stars hum, ripe with light.

Child,
who told you to carve shelter
into cracked bones,
to scatter your name
like fleeting petals in a storm,
to call what bites,
what burns—yours?

People—
illusions,
water slipping through the hands of time,
goldleaf peeling from statues,
mirages flickering out of reach.

But you—
obsidian,
forged in fire,
a constellation unraveling in defiance,
the ghost of something ancient,
unforgiving.

You are not held.
You are not lost.
You are the fire,
the tempest,
the truth that will not yield.

What lingers in you—
is eternity.

If the rain could weave your touch into mine,
I'd let it drench me, time after time.
Perhaps in a place where clocks don't turn,
You’d find me waiting, a love unlearned.

The door was slightly ajar,
her scent lingered in the air,
but when I stepped inside,
she was no longer there.

I always knew this was coming,
but still, I fought it—
like a moth drawn to the flame,
not out of choice,
but because I was made to burn.

The flame flickered, promising a release
I couldn’t name,
and I chased it, desperate in my hunger,
pretending I had a chance,
knowing deep down it was never a choice—
only the inevitable path to surrender.

Morning unfurls—
thin gold draped over the terrace rim,
the world still dream-fed, undecided.

She moves through it—
wild-crowned in bramble and gold,
a flower skewed in her hair—
stem fractured, wind-touched
but worn as if it could never be
anything less than perfect.

Something in her
the way her chin tilts to the sky,
the way sunlight spills across
the same high cheekbones,
the same quiet brow—
pulls at something nameless
beneath my ribs,
a longing too tender to name.

Her laughter
windstruck — a ripple in the skin of dawn,
spins loose, untethered,
a sound without edges,
without destination—
just the raw, impossible ache
of something alive
for no other reason
than because.

The air folds around her
soft, golden-bellied
as if the whole world
was holding its own
watching, waiting—
for a beauty
too wild to know itself.

I watch too,
not out of wonder,
but out of fear—
that something so fleeting
could slip through this hour
without ever being written down.

She will grow
the flower will fall,
the wind will learn her name,
and the sky will no longer
be enough to hold her.

But for now,
she blooms only for the sun,
for the hush,
for the wild, unmeasured ache
of simply being.

And I swear—
if I could stretch this hour
into forever,
I would—
just to watch her run
one breath longer.

Some joys bloom for nothing—
not for the gaze, not for the name—
but simply because the sun is warm,
simply because they can.

I did not smile at her.
I smiled at the hush—
the unbearable miracle
of something wild
that does not know
it is precious.

The hush lingers,
the morning folds—
soft gold cradling a face
that no longer lifts toward the sun.

The air no longer waits.
Only I do.

And beneath my fingertips,
the photo trembles—
thin, timeworn—
edges curled like petals,
as if the years have tried
to fold her back into a bloom.

now, in this hush,
I turn to her—
and I smile.

She was my mother.
She was a girl once,
unwritten.

And I—
I have spent my whole life
trying to read her.

Fingers—
laced in glow spill, dusk-slick.
tiny suns,
trembling—bodies of light,
trapped.

pulse-thrum,
hush-black air—
soft hymns flickering,
pleas pressed to glass,
breath-fogged, burning.

whispered tomorrow—
honey-thick, guilt-laden,
beauty begged to be held.

dawn—
bled dry.
cold palms, hollowed vessel,
absence like ruin.

I lied to the glass.
worse—
I stole their dying light.

& now—
I bear their afterglow
like a wound that refuses to dim.

I have nothing of you
except your face in the dark,
your voice in the silence,
your words echoing in my mind.

I have nothing of you
except your smile in sorrow,
your soul in my essence,
and you—always you—
living in every corner of my heart.

Lilac hush —
earth, half-waking,
baroque birdsong.

Moss curls ,
dew beads on nettle’s tongue —
small, glassy prayers.

wind —
silk-handed seamstress —
stitches light into every leaf,
veiling the world — breath and bloom.

Bones of old trees cradle the sun’s milk,
wildflowers nestle in their ribs —
what dies here, lives softer.

river, translucent and slow,
spills silver veins , the skin of the valley —
a quiet pulse beneath the green.

Somewhere between sky and soil,
we become the silence —
lungs folding into pollen-laden air,
fingertips brushing the hem of forever.

Nothing belongs.
Nothing is apart.

In the meantime,
the world remakes itself —
petal by petal, wing by wing —
and we, fragile passengers,
are simply learning how to listen.