the world enters unannounced.
the body gives its final measure.
the rhythm that keeps time
             for every word.

at first glance:
a lantern catching the outline of a face.

on the last vigil:
the same lantern guttering at the threshold.

it's always:
the act of seeing, which
keeps the world from vanishing.


.

a lantern catching
the outline of a face.

the same lantern
guttering at the threshold.

the act of seeing, which
keeps the world from vanishing.


.

.

I write to you
from the shore of
a life not yet begun.

The tide hesitates,
as if listening for your step.

My hands are empty,
but already they remember
the weight of yours.



.

Messing with this heart,
affection slurred, aloof apart.
Sober eyes can't see,
there's more to love and me.






.

Between wave and return  
       the salt grew heavier in my hands.

Foam thinned to threads,  
       knots glinting in the shallows.

Still wet with the reading,  
       I leaned toward the loom.

the scrolls stare back like a shopfront window
where the mannequins wear my metaphors,
   price tags swinging from their wrists.

           You didn't shake their wrists,

           but I saw it nonetheless—
      tags fluttering away like pale,
    misunderstood butterflies.




.

A tide‑glass hour ends before the sand, but the sea keeps counting.

A ring compass points north yet circles my finger like a vow.

Even broken, a lantern shard keeps a fragment of the night inside.

North waits for no tide; it circles in gold.

A vow can light the way, even in shards.

The night ends before the sand, and the sea continues counting.



.