We built a bridge
out of chalk outlines,
soft lines drawn with our careful hands—
a meeting place of sorts,
where we approach without fear,
where breath is light and unburdened.

Our demons watch, restless,
lurking at both approaches,
waiting for tensions to appear,
but we ask the rain to come,
to wash, to erase,
to show them how we stand—
how we move freely
without breaking.

We are not in a hurry—
if the lines smudge, or
if the rain turns to flood,
we will draw again, again,
and again, if we have to—
slowly learning how to build
boundaries and bridges.

One day,
when the shape holds
and the bridge can carry us,
when we step forward
without shrinking back.
We will meet in the middle,
where the chalk fades into stone,
where the weight of the past
cannot pull us under.

And our demons—
forced to wait on each side—
will learn, at last,
how small they have become
here, at Boundary Bridge.

The bourbon
curves
to the bend
of frosted glass—
ice drifts,
aching to be sunk,
collapsing
under
a slow burn.

The amber
liquid
turns to gold
in my palm—
I lift it
to my lips,
time drips thin,
as my mouth
fills.

All that is left now—
a soaked
orange slice
and
an itch
for another
pour.

The moss stretches thin
across the arms of trees,
clinging the way a chill
catches at the back of a neck.
The pinch before darkness thickens—
I, too,
feel the night settle,
and drape myself
in shadow.

No one asks—
why the sky rests in my chest,
why I lean toward the dark,
why the trees bend closer
each limb bracing
against the silence I carry.

The night knows—
it tightens its hands
around the quiet in me,
kindles something small,
lets it smolder
before swallowing me in.

This is how it feels—
to belong
to something
that will not speak
to kneel before silence
that will never answer back.

This house
hollow as sorrow—
air clings thick to the walls,
mute as tombstones.
Time—a cold stone,
lurks in the corners,
its face blind with grief—
its hands turning to dust.

I tell myself,
just one more day,
to stop trying to chase the dark away,
like a moth drawn to fire,
its wings flirting with ruin.
The floorboards wail beneath my steps.

Ghosts press against my neck—
hungry—wanting to feed on my weakness.
I try, in vain, seal myself shut.
Every sigh—
a blade drawn across a wound,
deeper than rust,
burning bitterly.

I am here—
fighting off shadows,
counting time in an hourglass,
its throat choked with wet sand,
waiting for the tide to rise
and carry me back to myself—

I’m not going to make it.

Hope is thin—
a tattered silk in a storm.
Still, I hang on.
There is something about being stung,
that pulls me back—
again and again,
to this aching, quiet fight
for more.

I thought it was a place once—
walls sagging like tired lungs,
a door swollen from a summer swell,
its brass **** that fit my hand—
now it slips through me, the way
colors fade from old paintings.

There is a howl tucked inside words—
an ache carved into letters,
a sound like a bird hitting glass.
Each time I reach for it,
it shatters differently—
a place I fled barefoot
when no one was looking—
a warmth rubbed thin,
threadbare as past voices
heard through a slamming door.

Now,
I wonder if it was ever real,
if home was the heat I carried
in the hollow of my chest,
the space I carved between ribs
and marrow, where I could
curl up and sleep.

Maybe it’s not a house,
after all but a scent—
wet towels or burned toast.
Maybe it’s the way the air
catches a shiver at dusk,
a voice still calling—ragged
and raw—asking to come back,
not to what was once,
but to something wide open —
an unlatched gate,
a stranger’s open palm,
wanting nothing but to stay.

I have learned
to listen
to the soft voices
of broken things—
rain sighing on roofs,
curtains moving
like ghosts,
wildflowers aching
to bloom
in forgotten patches.

I see broken hearts
all around me—
I know without asking,
where what might have been
is buried—
standing there in their ruins,
shadows heavy on their dreams.

I lean into empty spaces,
stray through cold drafts,
search their sorrow—
as if this fractured quiet
could teach me
how to help them
feel unbroken again.

Even as I know,
I break too.

It begins soft, like the touch
of fingertips trailing your neck,
each note a sensation, a memory
from a deep pocket in your heart.
I sit by the window—
light slanting across my face,
as if the song brings back the warmth
of someone who is no longer here.

Stréliski plays as though
she knows the precise measure of aching—
the heft of it—how it brands into the chest,
drawing you forward,
closer to the keys, closer to the past,
closer to the place where a single chord
could bring you to your knees.

The piano returns—
the way her hands hovered,
above the keys
like a sparrow deciding
whether to take flight or stay,
the way she would play until dawn.

With eyes closed,
the melody gathers,
a gust through bare trees,
the kind of wind that tugs at your coat
and uncovers the truth
you have been trying to avoid.

In the music,
I see her hands, veined and sure,
holding the ache of a life spent
between silence and song.

The last note hangs,
suspended like the final break
before silence.
It’s not an ending—
more like the pause
when the wind shifts,
and you feel it—
this change, the way
it both moves you forward
and leaves you behind—
making you want to listen
all over again.

I miss her complicit
'behind-closed-doors' smile,
the way she would erase
all the faces sitting at the table.
And if she saw me catch her,
she would pause—
push her elbow toward me,
hesitation laced
with invitation,
shift her eyes,
and give me
that 'just-wait-till-we-are-alone' look.

Silent dares and stares
that turned distance cozy.
There was no need for words,
just the warm space between us,
a language written in peeks,
translated in breath
and the touch of skin.

Now, the space remains—
cooling where fire once
danced between us.
And I wonder—
does she miss the heat, too—
how I wonder.

He waits—
silent
as bare branches
a patient one
against the flat of her canvas
where colors sleep
where light has been bruised
from greedy fingers—
she hesitates
to take shape—
she needs more time
and he is someone
to watch.

She lingers—
brush poised
waiting—
colors unborn
shadow stretching her wings—
hidden in scarred shoulders.

And only then—
when time bends soft
from her patience
does she lift her art
and inspire
the flame—

And then
does she paint.

Poems come from care
not loosely struck from a pen
but from a firm hand

Quand les soupirs
d’un paysage aux souffles panachés
me mouillent de silence
et que mon regard s’abreuve
de combles bleus rougissants
gorgées fuyantes d’escadres voilées
d’esquifs pourprés

Bâillonnés dans les barbelés d’un jour pesant
mes tourments à vif se débusquent sans supplice
fugitifs sevrés
extirpés comme des chevaux de frise incendiés
dépouilles des nuages maculés de braise

Quand les lueurs râpées se renversent
sur les champs ancrés dans la brunante
et que les vallons s’inondent du contre-jour
versants d’espoirs
labours évadés d’un soleil couché

Mes ombres fatiguées se calment sans frasque
assoupies comme les couleurs effacées par la brune
le cœur debout  les nerfs défaits
les yeux débordant
mes désirs se cale dans le crépuscule

She has two rifles
a shotgun
pistols that pile
like her loose dresses—
a crossbow so silent
so sharp
it splits the air
before it flies

Even her pans—
cast iron more lethal
than the words I swing

And I—
all I have is a spoon
worn thin
from spreading too thick

She slices—
I scrape

She strikes—
I smooth

And somehow
we both meet in the middle
with open palms
taking turns
to see who flinches first

The earth
too busy
never turns us gently—
its roots,
once slender,
now twist
like gritted teeth,
pulling tight
where we once were free.

We leave
an imprint
of our hands
in the soil,
searching for softness,
but only to find
something turned—
bitter, deeper.

For better or worse,
running life from the front seat—
the road bends here.

Late summer hot spot,
heat clings to the bedroom walls—
music fills the air—

her voice, a cracked vinyl song,
spinning, stuck on the same groove.

Moonlight on wet sheets,
a handprint fading slowly—
skin forgets in time.

I leave the door open wide—
desires take what they want.

Drought splits the river,
parched earth curls its brittle tongue
waiting for the rain.

The wind shifts at dawn’s first light,
I gather myself, and leave.

We carried the ocean
between us—
love spilling from our wrists—
too vast,
too fragile,
too little shore.

I reached—
but you had already
turned to tide.

And now—
we carry the ocean
between us.

The past—
moth-wings, dust-thin,
dissolving at touch—
markings
worn thin
as river stones,
voices replaced
by the wind—
only faint rustles
remain—
blended into
the silence of time—
who remembers
the hands
that built
the forgotten roads,
the scratch
of ink
before it dried
on a forgotten parchment.

Somewhere,
a hand
once carved truth
into stone—
now the rain
speaks of it
but no one listens.

Waves echo softly,
like sleep that tosses and stirs—
a dream of returning lovers,
where both friendship and love are found.

They beckon and brush closer,
falling gently,
hoping the tide will catch them.

Where the ocean meets the shore,
and hungry lips drink elated tears.
Hesitations vanish like morning mist,
as life’s day-to-day rhythms,
rise and fall—
relentless and sure.

Where trust and innocence rise,
woven between drenched sands
and settling waters—
kindred souls drawn together,
seeking refuge in truth.

Solace lingers,
soaked and speckled,
touched by the sea.

Where hope blooms—
freckled yet beautiful,
softly echoing,
tender and sublime.

Elder Trees
Their trunks bend and creak,
never do they collapse—
strength is in silence.

A vacant room sobs
like autumn shedding its leaves
I step into change—
the past—a shoulder left behind
the future—my hand

E - Each
T - time
H - her
E - eyes
R - reflect
E - endless
A – astral and serene
L - light

My words—
thin as autumn leaves
humble— scattered
never quite
reaching.

I watch them fall—
some swallowed by wind
some fading
untouched—
I do not mourn.

Not all things take root,
not all echoes return—
I let them drift
unburdened
knowing—
there will be
other autumns
to endure.

The sea is not my partner
not some tender thing
that sings me home—
It is hunger and starvation
a mouth
that does not care
if I break
or not.

I am neither hero nor fool—
a man with blistered hands,
rowing against regret,
rowing to forget
knowing the tide
will take what it wants—
whether
I give it
or not.

Somewhere,
the shore wants me back,
a missing notch in the dawn,
a place that once cared for me
I do not look back.
I do not pray.
I only pull the oars,
my body burning—
fierce and fallible,
swallowed
by salt and silence—
both asking me to stop,
just stop.

Like the rain down a well
it comes down easy
down my spine

Like the wind through a passage
it comes through easy
through my spirit

Nothing to gather
nothing to chase
no reason
no rush
no rhyme
no punctuation

The air is open
the ground is firm
the time is near

All at once
once and for all
there is nothing to answer—

Not even myself.

The flames draw themselves in,
like small birds nesting in ash—
their orange and red wings shivering,
tightened against the howls of frost.
You can almost hear them whisper—
a quiet argument with the dark.

The cold leans in to intrude,
thin and insistent,
its hollow hands breaking
against a warm barrier,
but the fire breathes, draws in,
defiant—enduring not as a roar,
but as a small, deliberate crackle.

How strange to think
that even fire must defend itself—
Its frail tongues grasping for air,
each ember a fragile warrior,
standing guard against the dark.
It fights not with force,
but with radiant humility,
drawing close,
surrendering space
to preserve what heat remains.

Outside—
the frost stretches across the land,
but here, within these walls,
the fire huddles close to itself,
offering its fragile heat.

It makes me wonder,
if this is what survival is all about—
not a fiercest hell,
but the unyielding will to endure,
to grab hold of what pulls us apart
and feed the fire.

The window is cracked just enough
to let the wind finger its way in—
curling soft around my ankles,
as the sun spills sideways,
the way a child might reach for attention.

I press my palms into the pillow,
watch it rise, soften—
the act of it settles in my hands.
It’s not about comfort,
the pillow or the down,
it’s about the act,
this quiet insistence I have—
as if making this small thing right
might make the rest follow.

Everything here feels temporary—
the way light pools on the floor,
shrinking, no longer stretching as before.
It hesitates, pausing on the walls,
as if it knows I can’t stay here forever.

I keep moving my hands,
as if smoothing this moment
could hold me together,
grant me a small grace
I shouldn’t take for granted.

What can I do—
when the clock ticks louder each day,
when illness is measured in stages—
leaving a mark in my chest—
an indelible stamp I can’t erase.
reminding me not to forget,
that months are now numbered.

I fluff the pillows anyway,
make a shape where my body won’t be.
I imagine it is just firm enough
to hold a piece of me—
just the smallest trace,
a faint scent filling the air
long after I have left.

And when the room grows quiet,
as I sit on the bed, I think about
how light holds its color,
how it clings to everything
even as it fades—
the way I do now—
how it makes this feel important,
makes me reach for some tenderness,
as if I could smooth it,
shape it so it might cradle me—
just a little longer.

I am a small bird
afraid to fly—
rooted in wildflowers
my feathers painted
with borrowed sunsets.

The sky calls
but the ground anchors me
in too much comfort—
a habit from never
daring the wind.

I carry
a bruise-colored ache—
red spilling into blue
a ghost that rests its sorrow
upon my wings—
my heart—
a home for lives
I never lived.

My legs sink into the earth
like reeds into soft ground
asking me to stay—
the safety of being unseen—
but what is the cost
of never leaping
never feeling the wind
wrap around my wings.

The tide grows bold
creeping in
making the sand slick
greedy with its touch.

The wind calls my name—
I have not heard it in so long—
a warm whisper curling
against my feathers.

The sun
has burned too long—
fields left hope in rags
grains shuddering
against
the wind’s heated tongue
enough to set fire
to the rain.

She runs her hands
through the ruin
palms sifting for life
aching
for the yield
that will not come—
nothing—
all husk
but one seed—
her renewal.

The sky leans heavy tonight,
a slate of stars refusing to sleep.
I pace waves in my mind—
thoughts churning like tides,
never retreating enough
to leave the shore bare
with quiet footsteps in the sand.

The moon drags its thin light
across the restless shoulders of night,
casting shadows that won’t settle.
And I think, maybe
some things aren’t meant to stop—
a river, a heart, or this relentless need
I have to keep moving.

I watch withered leaves fall—
deliberate, almost kind.
Each one drops gently
onto the waiting ground.
I think they’ve practiced this,
as each one helps me rehearse,
a goodbye I must say,
to those that need to hear this—
I can't last forever even if I try.

The wind softly urges me—
not to worry and trust the landing.
And when I do go—let them hear
the leaves rustling, not the cry
of a breaking tree.