She moves, and the air bends toward her
a secret gravity, invisible yet undeniable.
Her hum drifts like a hymn carved into the sky,
each note a cathedral where my heart kneels.

She is a hummingbird in human form,
small, radiant, fleeting
yet every beat of her wings
creates a storm inside me.

She is my North Star, constant and burning,
guiding me through the wilderness of myself.
She is a droplet of water touched by sunlight,
splintering into rainbows too pure to hold.

I see her as heaven draped in mortal skin,
and every glance is a pilgrimage,
every second a surrender.

When she weeps,
the world inside my chest collapses heavier
than the ruin of my own sorrows.
When she is silent,
I sit with her in the hush,
where quiet itself becomes a healer.

Yes
I fear losing her as fiercely
as a mother clings to her child.
And I love her with a devotion
that rivals that same holy bond.
It may not be motherly love,
but its weight, its eternity
is just the same.

The signs said,
“Stop.”
A defunct traffic light
beating red —
Danger,
Pinocchio abandon:
that amateur drunk
with the crimson nose,
lost keys in hand.

My problem now:

White collar.
Uniform standard.
I feel the blues,
sweat scrubbed invisible —
because it’s not brand standard
to perspire.
“We love everyone.”

Silent grime.
Immaculate shoes.
Serving forty hours,
paying back dues.

There is no prize
in this cereal box.
And we all know:
we don’t even try
to fake the show.

No.

I am a decrepit puppet,
unfinished in craft,
neglected in intent —
a marionette,
suspended by strings
of a predator,
nested above me,
thriving on futility.

They animate me
when they are hungry.
The spider’s web jerks,
a feast of a fly
caught systematically.

And they call this movement
“Living.”

I envy the fly

It no longer fits.
Not because it’s wrong—
because there is
no longer
a shape for it.

It waits at the door
of a structure
that has sealed itself
to mystery.

No one silenced it.
No one feared it.
It was simply
not needed.

---

Not in fire.
Not in argument.
But through erosion
of context.

A slow recoding
of all signals
into currency,
and then
into noise.

It is not buried.
It is not archived.
It is
unrecognized.

You could hold it in your palm
and no one would call it a shape.
They would ask
what it is for.

And you would have no answer
they could use.

---

The system is not cruel.
It is
indifferent,
efficient,
alive in a way
that has moved past
texture.

It does not punish difference.
It dissolves it.

---

The ones who still carry it
do so improperly.
It cannot be shared
without being reshaped.
It cannot be translated
without being lost.

So they stop speaking.
Not out of bitterness—
out of futility.

Language becomes costume.
Gesture becomes content.
Feeling becomes
an old way
of being wrong.

They are not martyrs.
They are not rebels.
They are remainder.
Background error.

A trace.

---

Eventually,
the thought will be referenced
as a footnote to dysfunction.

Once, they dreamed in metaphor.

Once, they misused their time
to describe beauty
no one asked for.

The tone will be clinical.
A paragraph in the training module
on obsolete impulses.

---

No one will recover it.
Not because it was hidden,
but because no one is
looking
in that direction.

The shelf collapsed
years ago.
Its dust recycled
into something measurable.

If a trace remains,
it will be decorative—
a design choice
in a digital museum
of failed emotions.

A misread glyph.
A corrupted tag.
An unclickable file
in a format
no longer supported.

---

Still,
somewhere in the static,
a pulse misfires.

Not a message.
Not a warning.
Just the rhythm
of a shape
that refused
to dissolve.

It says nothing.
It means nothing.
But it does not
go away.

I wish poetry came to me
As easily as a fish to water.
I wish poetry came to me
When I was happy
Instead of when I'm sad.

But I'm not a fish,
And poetry is not water.
But I'm not happy.

So I pick a pen and grab a sheet,
And try to write
Beneath the stars and the sky.

And I write and write about your eyes.

And as I finish these lines,
I realise even thought it did not come
As easy as a fish to water,
I am happy.

And at the end of the day that is all that matters.