“Strawberry Moon”

It ruins the white shirt first,

a red that refuses to stay in its lane.

It ruins the clean‑lined morning

with a sudden memory of summer.

It ruins the careful distance

you swore you’d keep this time.

It ruins the myth

that you can taste something so tender

and stay unchanged.

It ruins the lie of being untouched.

It ruins the quiet.

It ruins you a little,

in the way only sweetness can.