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.

Step in—
my mind is an ocean
not blue—but a bleeding iridescence
of molten violets, rusted golds,
and bruised, unraveling ceruleans—
a palette spilled by a god having a dream.

You’ll see thoughts float here
like jellyfish lanterns,
soft, slow—laced in venom or velvet—
depending on how you look.

The sky never ends in here.
It folds like cracked parchment,
stretched over the aching arch
of my imagination’s bones.

There are trees made of bone-white whispers
and flowers with petals like flame-licked lace.
They bloom to the rhythm
of my pulse when I’m panicking,
and wilt under the weight
of a silence I can’t swallow.

There’s a path—
etched in the ink of dreams I didn’t chase—
it winds through forests of
regret-shaped branches
that scratch and caress all at once.

If you look to the left—
you’ll see a lake
made of every word I’ve never said.
It shimmers,
but only under the moon
of someone else’s approval.

Birds here don’t fly,
they unravel.
Each feather a fractured metaphor,
each call a dirge sewn with sunlight.

I hide in corners lit by memory—
a field of crooked constellations,
each one a version of me
you’ll never meet,
but will almost understand.

If you stay too long,
you’ll forget your name,
start to speak in echoes,
and dream in static.
But maybe that’s the point.
Maybe that’s the way
to really see me.

The sky spills liquid gold across the fields,
and every blade of grass hums a bright song,
ripples of honey laughter swim through the air,
as the trees burst into wild, kaleidoscopic blooms.

Clouds skip like stones across a sapphire lake,
the wind flutes silver melodies through the valley,
and the mountains wear crowns of glittering flame,
grinning, howling, singing at the top of their lungs.

The rivers are ribbons of melted stars,
the earth quivers with candy-colored sparks,
and hearts—oh, hearts!—
they pop like fireworks in a velvet sky,
sending ripples of giggling stardust everywhere.

Every breath tastes of spun sugar and sunlight,
every blink unwraps a prism of newborn wonder,
and my soul—my soul!—
is a thousand kites soaring, shrieking, bursting,
carried far beyond the hills of happiness.

They flicker—
petals plucked from unseen gardens,
their colors bleeding into the hush of the sky.

A whisper of lilac, of crushed gold,
of rain-drenched sapphire,
they spiral like forgotten prayers.

Underneath the aching hush of dusk,
the butterfly’s wings
shimmer like glass about to break—
fragile, too fragile,
as if beauty was never meant to last.

Mist hums in the hollow between trees.
The meadow, once a cradle of light,
now wilts into sighs,
its perfume dampened with grief.

And still they rise,
a shiver of soft rebellion,
a trembling hymn against the dimming world.

Each beat of wing,
a memory unmade,
a soft ache threading through twilight veins,
leaving ghost-lit trails
in the evening’s failing breath.

Perhaps this is how paradise fades—
not with fire,
but with the slow, silver drowning
of wings too heavy with dreams.