you spoke with your back turned
like nothing was wrong
a kettle sat screaming
its blistering song

your eyes crack with thunder
I don’t look away.
I taste every stormcloud
and swallow the rain

you asked if I loved you
then smirked at the floor
i said it too slowly—
you reached for the door

we fought in the hallway
with breath and with teeth
your moan was a trigger
my ache, underneath

you find every fracture
then press where it stings
You say, “it’s devotion,”
and tighten the strings

we crash into rhythm
too wild to be right
but god, we were holy
in sin and in spite

your hands found the bruises
you’d left there before
you kissed every wound
then begged me for more

but still, when you’re shaking,
and all fury’s gone—
I gather your pieces
and whisper a song

I stitched up the silence
you gave me to keep
and rocked us together
til sorrow found sleep

We curled into the ash
of what didn’t survive,
and found even ruin
left something alive.

Old man stands alone,
shirt undone,
hair silver and lifting,
the sky begins to split.

The storm enters
not with cruelty,
but with memory,
that deep breath before
the world unbuttons itself.

Thunder cracks like bones once young.
The rain walks sideways,
then vertical,
then all directions.
He does not move.

Was the storm that raised him,
not his father,
not a stiff lipped god behind a pulpit,
but this:
a violent choir of wind and water
tearing through the trees like language
he always understood
but never spoke.

Remembering it in his legs—
how the wind,
long ago,
swept him off roofs,
out of dry judgement,
into open roads and beds and truths.
How lightning never hit him,
but always pointed
and directed.

He once chased it—
barefoot,
drunk on youth and refusal,
beautiful clouds, black and blooming.
giving permission
to crack open,
shake the dullness off the skin
like the last coat of sleep.

Now, old and alone,
he feels it again—
that holy silence between the strikes,
that rush of air through the ribs,
the kind that makes love and sin feel small.

The wind doesn’t ask where he’s been.
The rain doesn’t question strength.
They just take him in,
pulling his bones into a long, level song.

No one watching.
No one shouting him back inside.
Only black clouds
reaching low enough
to press their foreheads to his.

In that communion,
the unspoken pact between man and squall
he closes his eyes,
and lets go
of names, of time, of answers.

Only the storm
knows who he was.
Only the storm
still loves him for it.

She undressed in the mirror.
Only the reflection watched.
I found her candle,
cold and forgotten.

Her hands moved like smoke
understanding how to be skin again.
Not performance. Not pleasure.
Just unlearning the habit of vanishing.

Her shadow held her shape
longer than I did.
She said: “Stay,
but forget.”

Her child slept, somewhere,
dreaming oceans away.
She etched a name in glass steam,
a word that burned too bright to keep,
then let it melt under hot breath.

There was a song
caught in the ceiling,
something we never played
but always meant to.

I kissed her hair while it was still hair
and not a question
left behind on a pillow.

I opened the door,
it sang some other man’s name.
A line drawn, erased. No message left.
The room forgot its language.
My ghost obeyed
and lifted.

You smiled
like I was worth the wait-
or the lie.
Couldn’t tell.
You left the kitchen light on too long.
I stepped inside.
The floor gave way.

I slept beside you
as a thief
-quiet,
not for comfort-
but for the hush
that comes
when no one asks
what you’ve done.

Your shoulder
held the part of me
that still wanted
to be forgiven.
I kissed you
like confession
with no priest,
no promise,
just heat and teeth.

You didn’t flinch.
Didn’t ask what made me
this way.
Didn’t try
to fix it.

I’ve burned names
like receipts.
I’ve swallowed shame
like spit.
Walked out
of too many mornings
with hands that still remember
who they touched
and didn’t deserve.

But you-
you just set a cup beside the bed.
No questions.
No sermon.
Just water.
Just presence.
Just mercy,
without the bow.
I drank the quiet.
It didn’t heal me,
but it stayed.

And when you sang-
not loud,
just soft enough to hold the air.
you said my name
like it was still mine.
Like it wasn’t
something I’d dropped
on purpose.
Like it could
come back.

We woke to laughter breaking glass.

not hers, not mine, not morning yet.

The ceiling blinked a single eye.

A moth drew circles on my chest.

Outside, a streetlight peeled its skin,

blue steam hissed from its broken throat.

A train passed through the bedroom wall.
it's hiss, then roll, steel cabled float.

last night was full of paper moons,
of bitten spoons, of matchbook lies.
My pulse made bargains with her skin,
her hands spoke truth her mouth denied.

I drank from bottles filled with bells.

Each swallow rang a darker note.

My name was stitched in spider silk

and pinned inside her winter coat.

The carpet bloomed with cherry pits.

A handprint shimmered on the sink.

The mirror mouthed a warning once,

but I forgot how not to blink.

I gave her maps I’d drawn in ash,

each road a lie, each city torn.

She read them like a child reads stars,

then vanished through a quiet storm.

She left no rope, no cage, no nail,

just shadows folded under wings.

I walked into the hallway’s mouth

to hear a single echoed string.

Some mornings take a different shape,

a wristwatch ticking in the trees,

a flame that speaks in borrowed words,

a bed unmade in seven keys.

A coffee swells in waxy skin
The city squints through windowed glare
She’s creased inside a wrinkled dress
Her ghost hangs limp in laundered air

A payphone rang, one ghost, one ring.
No one moved. We all just knew.
Outside, a siren tried to sew
threading pain through morning’s bruise

Fluorescent hum, a migraned god.
My coat spins slow behind the glass.
Zipper beats like trapped bird wing.
A sock grins dumb from wire racks.

This street is lined with yellow stain,
lights too bright for folks this small.
I sipped, I burned, I thought her name,
then let it drift in urban sprawl.

The dryer stops. A broken chime.
Just silence, stretching like a neck.
I crack, not loud. Just wide enough
to feel the break beneath my breath.

She’s someone else’s Sunday now
in fresh-washed light, her hair tucked neat
Vanilla steam and honeyed bread
laughing soft in kitchen's heat.

Here my soles are worn too thin
A half-full cup, a sleepless eye,
no grace, no hand to lift away,
this curb, this wind, this grayer sky.

And where I am, that’s all there is.
No turning arc. No healing bend.
But I’ll get up. I’ll fold. I’ll walk.
And maybe that’s enough to mend.

you pull me through doorways
with cherry red charm
you fill me with whiskey
and hang on my arm

The clerk asks for blood
the stone has run dry
we promise ’tomorrow’
and feed him with wine

dark clouds now move faster
with voice of hard wind
it speaks to you only
as thunder moves in

you twist here beside me
and curl like a vine
your teeth in my shoulder
reliving some crime

you hold me so tightly
and whisper your vows
your secrets stay hidden
your tears are so loud