I cradle aches
like heirlooms—
not mine,
but remembered

deep in the joints of memory,
where silence once slept
in rooms with hollow lullabies.

I press cool cloths
to fevered skin
with hands that once reached
into shadow
and came back empty.

Now they are full—
of bandages,
of borrowed grace,
of tenderness sewn like stars
into every rough seam.

I stir soup
as if it were a spell,
watching steam rise
like ghosts of things
I used to need:

a steady voice,
a soft no,
arms that didn’t shake.

To care
is to time-travel—
to give the child inside me
what she never received
by giving it
to someone else.

Each thank you
is a stitch
in the tear I carry.

Each healed wound
in another
is a whisper to mine:
you’re not forgotten.

Love is not red,
but a bluish sheen
like frost clinging to the edges of a withered petal—
quiet, delicate, grieving.

It echoes in rooms I’ve never stood in
but dreamt of dying in softly—
your name still caught in the lace of my breath.
Like spiderwebs in moonlight:
beautiful, invisible, breaking.

My ribs are glass when you smile.
Does that make you cruel, or does it make me fragile?
Tears hang like pearls in my lungs,
and I drown with grace.
(Love shouldn’t feel this much like drowning.)

The stars blink down with pity—
each one a slow, silver eyelash
shedding light on how I’m
held together by hurt and hope, both trembling.

You pressed your warmth
into my winter skin
and now I shiver even in summer,
missing a fire I can’t carry.
You made my heart grow teeth,
then kissed it with silence.

And it weeps,
not because you left—
but because you stayed long enough
to teach it how to ache with elegance.

the wind no longer bites,
no voices call her name,
just the soft hush of rain
kissing the earth
where she once stood.

the ache,
the ever-splintering ache,
has grown quiet—
not from healing,
but from letting go.

she does not cry anymore.
not because she is numb—
but because she is free.
freer than the clouds
that used to pass her by.

bones unclench,
heart unhooks,
lungs forget the weight of air.

no more needles
in the chest of morning.
no more claws
in the gut of night.

her soul, a silver thread,
slips through the seams
of a worn-out sky,
and drifts.

it is peaceful here.
quiet, yes.
but not empty.

those who love her
will ache—
but only because she loved so deeply.
and now,
she rests.

hush—
let her rest.

~
man on the moon,
woman in orbit,
unrequited science.
nowhere to land,
nothing to feel,
it might as well be Siberia.
luminaries change,
control lingers in the framework.

the heavens revolve
—deasil and artificial.
she has revolutions of her own,
legs that once swam
everyday in his backyard pool,
(that once draped around his coil)
now openly kick free
from his lunar confines.

he starts the countdown
—one one thousand,
two one thousand,
but she's not coming for him.
she's chasing other transmissions,
the bones of what she believes,
hoping something out there
can activate her heart.
~

A silent maw,
carved into the velvet of spacetime,
drinks the universe
without sound, without shape—
just the slow, spiraled collapse
of everything once known.

Its edge—a burning halo
of fused copper, liquid bronze,
and ionized fire,
spins at the speed of forgetting,
blurring into a ring of sheer velocity—
a lens where reality folds in on itself.

Around it:
deep red streamlines,
maroon currents of orphaned light,
taper and twist like oil on black water—
gravity made visible.

In the distance, galaxies drift—
fractured spirals in periwinkle dust,
nebulae bruised in plum and violet,
their tendrils stretched thin
by the pull of this ancient siphon.

It does not speak.
But it rearranges everything—
light becomes arc,
time becomes thread,
motion becomes stillness.

The accretion disk—a
maelstrom of starbone and ash,
where photons skim the surface
but never escape,
trapped in orbit,
a crown of failure and flame.

Beyond the pull,
light teeters, bends, breaks—
an aurora of shattered timelines
wrapped in lapis smoke,
flickering in rhythm
to a silence we will never unhear.

Each orbit marks a memory—
not ours,
but the universe’s—
stitched into the architecture of collapse.

There is no edge,
no true surface,
only the illusion of descent
into perfect black—
not emptiness,
but the compression of everything.

We are bystanders.
Frozen,
watching entropy dress itself
in colors we’ve never seen before.

No…
Let the stars go dim, let the sky forget my name,
I’ll burn the sun out of spite if it means I can stay—
right here,
beside the hush of his breath,
the world outside can hold its death.

Heaven, wait.
Don’t press your gates—
He’s here,
and I’m not done yet.

Let the angels pout, let trumpets mute,
I’d trade eternity for the whisper of his “don’t go,”
soft and low,
like dusk folding over our skin.
Let the cosmos spin without me—
his kiss is the only holy thing.

If time dared to pull him forward,
moved him on, moved him gone—
I’d flip fate backward,
slide through light-years just to belong
again in his hold,
wild and warm and bold.

Can’t stand— no,
I can’t stand to see
some stranger’s lips stealing my symphony,
hands tracing what only mine should know.
No.

I’d drown the clock, freeze the moon’s pull,
erase history with one scream,
if it meant he stayed in this dream.

I’d fall from heaven—
again and again—
if that’s the cost to
breathe him in.