Fingers—
laced in glow spill, dusk-slick.
tiny suns,
trembling—bodies of light,
trapped.

pulse-thrum,
hush-black air—
soft hymns flickering,
pleas pressed to glass,
breath-fogged, burning.

whispered tomorrow—
honey-thick, guilt-laden,
beauty begged to be held.

dawn—
bled dry.
cold palms, hollowed vessel,
absence like ruin.

I lied to the glass.
worse—
I stole their dying light.

& now—
I bear their afterglow
like a wound that refuses to dim.

Not the butterfly—
never the butterfly.

Only the delirium.
The fever of pursuit.
Wind-lashed laughter,
sun slitting gold across our skin,
hands slicing through hush,
through emerald ghosts.

Wings—silk, smoke,
breath—a ghost kiss,
vanishing.

We ran.
We ran.
Color hemorrhaged between our hands.
The sky swallowed it whole,
left nothing but,
the aftertaste of wanting.

Was it ever the capture?
Or the almost,
the ache of flight just out of reach—
like trying to pocket a mirage,
like teaching the wind to stay.

Years fold.
Silence swallows.
Love like wings,
dreams like dust,
fingers still cupped around air,
as if emptiness could be held.

We chase.
We lose.
We call it living.

Carefully placed and covered with love
Patience emerged in hydration
Stretching into the dancing air
Golden warmth radiates across my face
Sinking my roots further into the foundations
Of past experience
Inching further toward the sky
Waiting to blossom into potential
An open story to share again
May the withering be slow to come
Nourishing those surrounding the performance
I can become,

                                                        ­           once again