I glanced at the veins
of daisies drifting
from the sky—
roses and tulips, too,
tangled in the clouds,
as though the heavens
were blooming in reverse.

The moon and sun
had come to earth
for rest—
to feel the grass,
to touch something green,
to turn off their lights,
and finally, just breathe.

Because even light
gets tired
of being needed.

He said,
“Just fun and play.”
But I was already
half player,
half ache.
I don’t know how
to be light
when I carry
so much sky.

Like wild trees,
people branch out
fiercely—unconscious.

Some limbs reach
for light,
while others curl
into shadow.

Each one is growing
in their own time.
It’s never about you.

Don’t be bothered
by the thorns they wear.
A tree must grow them—
it’s part of its nature,
like armor,
like a dress.

I stretched far enough
to hug the moon—
and it didn’t flinch.
It stayed—unbothered,
like it had been waiting.

My mind shuts down
like a city at midnight—
lights off,
but echoes still
wandering the streets

Your absence hit
like a stem,
fresh-cut—
sap still weeping,
leaves still turning
toward a blue,
fictioned sun.

There’s something malignant
inside me—something that
hums in the dark,
fingers strumming a guitar
against my ribs at midnight.
By morning, a daisy unfurls
at my throat—
its tendrils trailing upwards,
like thoughts searching
for stillness at my mouth.