#mindinbody - Hello Poetry

When the curtain falls in love the characters begin to speak through tremors of syllables pressed from the keys of a cherry black piano. The rhythmic clicks like a crafted bird tapping, chopping building from mechanical noise. Hands passing, paceless still precise, arriving as words everything clicks, clacks together rippling through the sheets, to tell – that was already there.

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Feb 11

Feb 11, 2026 at 3:31 PM UTC

ist-one

The Curtain Falls in Love

When the curtain falls in love the characters begin to speak through tremors of syllables pressed from the keys of a cherry black piano. The rhythmic clicks like a crafted bird tapping, chopping building from mechanical noise. Hands passing, paceless still precise, arriving as words everything clicks, clacks together rippling through the sheets, to tell – that was already there.

15

Ripened in breath, lingering in sentences never said— but arrived anyway swallowed words, inhaled echoes, rippling through the chest truth lights up in the lungs for lack of air— what we can’t say otherwise.

0

Nov 11, 2025

Nov 11, 2025 at 10:30 PM UTC

ist-one

Did you mean it?

Ripened in breath, lingering in sentences never said— but arrived anyway swallowed words, inhaled echoes, rippling through the chest truth lights up in the lungs for lack of air— what we can’t say otherwise.

13

Syllables curl; silk sheens the crescent spoon drips into black— straight cut— 6 a.m. Half-awake: a hex— night grows legs, circles the room; gravity follows with a broom. I wake again— morning amber yawns across the table toward an empty cup. Eyes in the corner— the kitchen tiger, pocket-black, worrying the broom— a hiss. Then a leap: swipes the air lands on my chest; swift fur coils my wrist, heavy with purrs— a clinging bracelet. Not what I miss. It’s the habit— heat in the hand, steam on the lip; the slurp— turns into reverie. Mourning sips— felt at the pulse; the ceremony spills— ticks in the bone, cold to the marrow.

0

Nov 6, 2025

Nov 6, 2025 at 2:01 PM UTC

ist-one

The spoon and the broom

Syllables curl; silk sheens the crescent spoon drips into black— straight cut— 6 a.m. Half-awake: a hex— night grows legs, circles the room; gravity follows with a broom. I wake again— morning amber yawns across the table toward an empty cup. Eyes in the corner— the kitchen tiger, pocket-black, worrying the broom— a hiss. Then a leap: swipes the air lands on my chest; swift fur coils my wrist, heavy with purrs— a clinging bracelet. Not what I miss. It’s the habit— heat in the hand, steam on the lip; the slurp— turns into reverie. Mourning sips— felt at the pulse; the ceremony spills— ticks in the bone, cold to the marrow.

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