Clouds curl, bruised whispers
skies changing colors again—
nature twists like fingers on piano keys
I’m tangled in a corner of myself.

When your silence bites,
I don’t know if I’ll bare my teeth
or fold inward
like paper dolls collapsing
under summer rain.

We're floating in the space
between "stay" and "run,"
holding breath underwater—
neither surfacing nor drowning,
a little unsure of which we fear more.

You pull close,
then release,
moon cycles of embrace and retreat—
each goodbye echoing softly,
a note lingering, unresolved.

Escape calls louder than home;
running is my oldest song.
Yet your open palm
makes me pause,
hovering mid-flight,
just above your fingertips,
wondering
if gravity could hold me this time.