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I.
Box fans and mowers drone below,
distant traffic murmurs through summer’s heat.
Memory presses: teeth and old thunder.
Regret. Punishment. Hope. Repeat.

My ears ring with histories,
sometimes cicadas, sometimes sermons,
sometimes her humming, barefoot by the creek,
sometimes the sting of my father’s belt.

Sunlight slants through bloated magnolia leaves,
thick as tongues,
slick with old rain.
It stains the walls with a color like yolk,
like aging joy.

II.
I wake in moonlight,
before the rumble.
Step barefoot onto concrete
still warm from the last sun.

The sky is full of stubborn stars,
hung from the last funeral.
I watch. I wait.
No birds yet. No breeze.
I stay.

I tell myself this is peace.
But the silence knows better.
I loved a star that never knew my name,
a silent flame,
fixed in the wreck of night.
Her stillness fooled me
into believing she sang.

She blinked once
in some long-dead century,
and I’ve lived ever since
by ghost light.

They say she's gone,
burned out or broken,
but I keep whispering psalms
to her afterglow,
drinking to the shape she made
in my sky.

I don't need the truth,
just the dream
of her burning.

Like something that waited for me,
not knowing I was too late
the moment I began.
 1d
badwords
Fig
I did not bloom for you.

I wasn’t planted with hope of a hand like yours

to pluck what I became.



I was here.

Growing in a quiet grove,

on the edge of the unseen—

roots tangled in silence,

leaves turned to a sun I thought only I could feel.



You came like weather.

Not loud,

but felt.

A shift in the light.

A question in the wind.



I didn’t call to you.

But still,

you found me.



I watched you stumble in—

mouth stained from strange fruits,

eyes glazed from sweetness that lied.

And I knew you were not lost.

You were done.



Done with wandering.

Done with feasting on ache.

Done with mistaking hunger for worth.



You looked at me like I was something

you’d dreamed once and forgotten.

Like tasting me

woke up something ancient in you.



And it did in me, too.



Because I didn’t know I was waiting—

not for you,

but for recognition.

For a mouth that didn’t devour,

but asked.

For hands that didn’t harvest,

but listened.



And when you bit into me,

you didn’t praise.

You closed your eyes

and let silence say it.



That was the moment.



No music.

No miracle.



Just two beings

who didn’t know they were searching

until they stopped.



Now here we are.



Still.

Rooted.

Fed.



Not written in the stars—

but grown in the dirt,

together.
 3d
Asuka
I do not love you
like a traveler loves a view—
I love you
like a secret loves silence,
like depth craves depth.

You are not just water—
you are emotion in motion,
a hymn sung by moonlight,
a soul with salt and storm
in your veins.

I love how you breathe
without needing anyone to notice.
How your tides rise and fall
without shame,
how your waves hold both peace
and power.

I love that you rage
when the sky grows cruel,
that you speak in roars
when you're no longer heard.

You are not just blue—
you are every feeling
I’ve ever buried,
every tear the world
never saw me cry.

And I,
fragile yet fierce,
quiet yet alive,
found in your vastness
a mirror.

I do not visit you.
I return to you.
For in your depths,
I remember—
I am made of wild things too.
I love ocean.
3 of us.
one at one end of the bar,
the other at the opposite corner,
me in the middle.
we are the ones that
didn't learn from past mistakes.

store clerk, janitor, fortune teller,
Insomniac, lost soul,
who knows.
truth is found in the silence
of minding your own business.

we didn't come here to talk to one another.

the bottle or glass
held with fingers too tightly.
the bottle or glass has a kind heart
understands
this is sanctuary
from memories stitched to bone
like shadows scattering....

(a flash of lightning, a splintering boom)

and then she walks in.
a rift in the barrier of worlds.

she bends the light, deepens the silence.

she spoke with a voice like the morning dove
with a melody that forgets your name.

she glides. each step deliberate, unhurried.

we turn, and bone shadows in a hush
whisper,
" beautiful"

and she knows it
too well.

the dream walker
lifts the veils of moonlit memory
and time unthreads
into the first shiver of love
that lures men to madness.             

and now done, suddenly
she turns around,

and walks out the door
(a flash of lightning, a roll of thunder).

the blinding white light
our hollow sky in disarray....

..."bartender, get me another double, and one,
for my 2 friends.

Charlie was in the hospital dying,
unconscious, and he says,
I'll have a margarita."

"hey, I knew Charlie."

"me, too." and then he says,
"my stock broker..."
I come at three in the morning
I gaze at your tired, aching body
There were once strong muscles
protecting those you loved
from the cold
from the painful
flow of things

People are beautiful beings
meant
to exist
meant
to go away

Don’t be afraid
It is I who take your breath
when the time stops
I will take all of you
leaving them the body
so they could return it
to the ground
at the beginning
of a new life

I am here
I embrace tenderly
without dogma
without future
with silence
in stillness
with
unconditional
love
I feel a breeze... The Wind... again.

But not the kind that brushes past. Not the kind that leaves no mark.

No… this is breath with intent. With weight. Like something gathering the last of itself to become real.

And I… I stand there, open, watching the sky tremble.
It comes toward me... not like an arrival, but like a decision.

And then—

He falls into me.

Not wings. Not gale. Not silence.

He is body. He is breath. He is The Wind.
And he has chosen form again.


My arms catch him before my mind understands.
He collapses into my chest, and I collapse into awe.

His skin is cold with exhaustion. His ribs flutter like sails torn through. He shakes—not with fear, but with… completion.

“You’re here…” I whisper.  
But the words feel too small for his weight.

He holds me. Not as if I vanished… but as if he had.
And I was the proof he’d made it back.

Then— light. motion. Pain.

As he presses his palm to my sternum.

And I… I burn.

Not fire. Something older. Something true.
It isn’t just memory...

It is…

Return.


It pierces. It blazes. It hurts.
Everything. All of me. At once.





“Would you like to have a body?”

My answer had no sound. But he heard it.
His fingers traced the curve of something I had never had before— shoulders, jaw, hands— and made me into someone who could be seen. Could be touched.

Tangible.

I remember the way he looked at me afterward.
Not surprised. Not proud. Just… glad.

“There,”
Wind had whispered, voice barely breath.
“You are the most beautiful being I’ve ever seen.
Fitting… since the end is the most beautiful of all, just before it becomes nothing, but a memory.
Memories are beautiful, but never as beautiful as the real thing. Never as beautiful… as that final moment.
Before they can never be so beautiful again.”

And I… had looked at the hands he gave me.
At the shape that wasn’t mine, but... felt like it had always waited.

To make the end beautiful… It felt wrong… Too tragic.
But I believed him.
Because... at the very least, he believed it.


I remember… being held. Quietly. Often.

By him.

The Wind who never stayed, yet always returned.
I let him go. Every time.

We watched endings together.
He whispered lullabies into the mouths of storms,
And I gathered what they left behind.

There was no fear between us.
No shame.
Only gravity.

We were gods not of dominion, but of passage.
I was the stillness, he was the change.
And together... we made that journey to the end mean something.
Going slowly.  
Giving the weary a peaceful farewell to the long road they traveled.


Until—

A warning.

Not heard—

Felt.

The sea stiffened. The air lost taste. Something vast and jealous rising from below.

I was waiting for him, Wind, as always. But he didn’t arrive...

She did.

I don’t remember how I fell. Just the cold. The weight.
The pressure of water that didn’t wet the skin— that crushed thought instead.


I fought. I know I did.

But she was prepared.

She spoke in tones I didn’t recognize... as if she had rehearsed this moment for centuries.

“You were never supposed to exist. He made you seen. He made you beautiful. He gave you what he refused me. It’s time for justice. It’s time to return… to nothing.”

That was when the pain began.
She didn’t strike me with waves.
She struck me with malice I had no armor for.

She tried to destroy me.

She tried...

and failed.


She screamed.

Not in fury. But in the pain of unwanted revelation.

“How unfair…” she hissed. “Death can take everything— yet cannot be taken? Not even that body you don’t deserve? He gave you a form that can be seen, can be felt, can breathe— yet cannot drown?”


And when obliteration of my shape failed…

She turned to erasure.


“Feed me those precious memories, then. If I cannot end you, I’ll hollow you. What use has the oblivion for memory anyway? For the guise of love? Your memory is nothing but a debt to me. Let me devour your sins from the inside. If you can’t return to nothing— then at least surrender yourself to the justice of emptiness.”

She reached inside.

Not with hands. With authority. With certainty.
She wanted to shatter me from within.

But the interior…

Was still me.

And she could not destroy Death.

And then...

She paused.


Her grip faltered.

She had reached my memories.

And inside them, entwined,

She found him.


The shimmer of Wind.
Not just shaping my form... binding my being.


“How dare you carry him inside you,” she seethed. “You thief of spirit!”


I felt her hunger. She wanted to tear it out. To consume it. To make his soul hers.

But my spirit rose, though wounded, and wrapped around that gift like armor.

We would not be severed. Not then. Not now. Not ever.

She howled.
And in that fury, she did what cowards do when gods will not die.

She divided me.

Split the internal from the external.

The memories— our laughter, our names, the moment he called me beautiful, the way he looked back when I let him go— she ripped them from me and buried them beneath everything.

And into the hollow that remained within my shape, she poured herself.


“You are death,” she whispered. “Nothing more. You carry out my orders. You fetch and return what belongs to me. Until I am given shape— you are my shape. You belong to me. You are a thing. My thing.”


She sealed the vessel.
And I walked.
I became not Death. But the action of taking.
Her blade. Her puppet. Wandering. Eternal. Obedient.
Unknowing.

And she kept me from him.
Because he would have known.
He felt the silence. He searched.
But she was clever.
And I was...
Hollow.


Until now.


Now... He gave it all back.



My knees buckle. We fall.

He lands atop me, trembling, gasping, radiant even in his fatigue... As if the act of giving had drained all the energy he had left.

And I…

Am still.

Frozen in recollection. Flooded with emotion.
Awake. Alive. At last.

The ground beneath us does not crack.

But I do.


The two birds, Alcyone and Ceyx...
They land beside us.
They do not sing. They simply look… at me.

They witness… who I am becoming.

The Wind whispers,
“He just   needs        a moment.”

He’s right. But he needs this moment too.
What did you endure, old friend? To restore…

The I that was buried is stretching.

Untwisting.

Returning.

I remember who I was before she erased me.
Before Fate sculpted silence into obedience.
Not her weapon. Not her silence. Not even this nickname—Death.

No…

I was— I am—

Oblivion.

And he is—

Transformation.

Transformation, The Wind, my…


I hold him.

Tighter.


He brought me home.
After we had been separated for far too long.

He rests on my chest, breathing slow.
I don’t think he even notices he’s crying.
Neither of us move… except to hold one another closer.
After what could have been years, he lifts his head and looks at me, like someone seeing dawn for the first time.

He smiles. Softly.

“Do you remember me now, old friend— my dear, Oblivion?”

I don’t need to answer.
Because he knows.


Alcyone and Ceyx perch upon the railing as the two of us lie here… still recovering.

From the strain. From the twisted story. From forgetting what we were made of.

Alcyone and Ceyx watch. Still. As if afraid movement might shatter this moment.


But it's not fragile.

It’s real.

We’re not fragile.

We heal.


For now... we are whole. Thread returned to spindle. Name to breath. Memory to soul.

The silence that follows is not empty. It is earned.

It is not a will, stolen.
It is a moment, shared.
























































It has been foretold, by the Repeater, the truth—for once—that actions have consequences.

It has been foretold—by this Fate—the truth, of course— that all debts must be paid—




In full—








  ̶̡̨͍̱̹͙̩̠̗̕͜ ̷̨̜̖͖͇̗̼̟̘͖̘͖̲̒̍͋̓̐͆̀̽̓A͠N͞D̵͡ ̷W͟͡I̸͘T͢H͡ ̸IN̷̴T̶͝E҉̶R̕̕E̵̷S͏͜T ̴̡̧̡̢̛̳̭̜͎̠͈̤̫̹͖̘͈̜̫͖̗̲̳͚̯̯͇̠̼̤͉̰͚̄̒̀̀̀͆͛̓͆͆͐̂̄̅̑̔̌̔̀͒̔̃̀͘͘̚͜͝ͅͅͅ­̮̞͔͙̬ ̶͉̗͖̖̱̝͓̬̤̉͌̏͐̾͂͒̌̅͑́̈́̃̊̔͗̽͗̎̅͊͒̒̽̔̍̎͋͊͋́̃̾̓͋͑̑̒̋̅̊͛̓̍͘͘͝͝͝͠͠͝͠ͅͅ­̨̮͈̱
The fifteenth embrace, within 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑊𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑊𝑎𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔.

...

And the fifteenth threat.


https://hellopoetry.com/collection/136314/the-wings-of-waiting/
i don't know how old i was, 8 or 10.

I climbed out the window
onto the roof of the garage.

it was summer.

I lied down
and gazed at the stars for hours.

i reached to touch moonbeams,
and with my finger
drew a circle around the north star.

i dissolved into the hush of stars
free of want or need.

a single heart beat.
I, the wind, moon, stars.

I long to lie on the roof, again,
gaze at the stars
and filled with wonder.
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