He drew her clothes away
like waves touching the
shore, stealing sea-silk
and slipping back quietly.
Rain slid down the
windows, and moonlight
pulled the shadows of
heaven into her eyes.

The sun
draws in the dead we bury,
burn them into light.
The moon,
though mounted in darkness,
holds this holy truth in silence.
Stars—
souvenirs of empathy—
scatter across the night,
in search of one more smile.
The sky
decides what to reveal,
what to keep veiled.

What we lose
becomes —what we see.

My mother once said:
No one is born turtle-shelled.
It’s the world that distills us into
resilience—pressure folding us
inward, like soft fruit behind
a spiked rind.

Inside, we are tender—
even the durian has
sweetness.

Her inner tides rose
quietly—
and in the moonlit
water,
her face blurred, yet
shimmered like something sacred.
She laughed, even in—unrest.

The moon saw her—better than
she did.

What if I pulled a rope
from the moon’s quiet rear,
hung a wooden seat—
and swung through the dark
like it was mine to hold?

as if the cosmos— had kept
a seat for me.

He stirred her moons—
left them pulsing like distant stars.