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.

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.

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

You're perfect at every moment—
remember, even stars don’t shine with perfect edges.

And still—they light the 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.

Empty my organs.
Excavate what's left—
fine flecks of gold,
forged by patience
and empathy.
Melt them slowly.
Hang what’s holy
around your neck,
for your living.

—donation.

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.

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.

You placed that long,
humming conduit in me
and I jolted, a surge in the
dam, my limbs stuttering
like loose wires, no rhythm,
no balance —just current.

My body answered—  
before I did.

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

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

We compress every feeling
into a smile—a rainbowed
universe painted across the
crescent of our mouths,
because the cosmos fits
between two lips and the

world unfurled— at the
curve of a divine mouth.

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

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.

In a world where love is an endangered creature, don’t wander in search of it.
Instead, accept the speed, shape, and limits nature has given you.
You are like a swan, gliding gracefully across the water, while your webbed feet paddle beneath the surface with resilience.
Though you may be seen as a symbol of fidelity, you won’t always smell sweet, and that may be a reason for being disliked.
But that’s not a flaw—just a boundary. We all have our own.
Not everything beautiful takes the same path to become a flower.
♥️

I feel myself
being consumed
by the universe—
a little more each day.

The sky draws light
from my wounds,
and pulls colour
from my blood—
into rainbows.

I melt,
drown,
vanish—
like ice in wine,
quietly disappearing.

My edges
start to blur,
my shape
less defined.

Though I vanished,
I made the act
of giving fuller—
Like melting ice
lifting water,
An ascent
born gently
from my dissolving.

The curse wasn’t the mirror—
but how many Grimhildes
were given one.
—equity.

Sometimes love sits stagnant—
like excess water in a wide
flower ***.
Other days, it’s just enough
for tender roots on a balcony,
absorbed and quietly drunk.

It swells and thins like a tide
beneath the surface—
shaping what grows above.

She wedded a vibrant patch
of land that cradled her radiant
spirit, wrapping her in
sunshine and wildflowers.

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.

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.

Just because I wear the
name 'woman', doesn't mean
I'll bare myself to you—
like the moon offering
herself to the night.
I'd rather remain—an
unopened bottle of wine.

I am not a pour—
I'm a preservation.

We need only
four things to
be whole—
love,
support,
a friend,
and— God.

Their lips brushed
against each other
like the sun leans over
to kiss the ocean.

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.

Patience is the drug.
The more I taste it,
the more it lingers—
a stillness I now seek.

I swim through its
endless depths, sculling
like a deep-sea fish,
where light is scarce,
but slits of beauty
glow along the fins.

It brings peace—
dilating the heart
like honey, slowly poured
into the vessels,
sweetness thickening
the body—richer than doubt,
denser than love.

God’s gift—passed to me,
without a question.

The feasts on her
chest nurture the
soft palates.