I don't ask
for wings—
but in my sleep
they come
sudden as
a shrug—
soft verb of lift.

I flit
where light
lets me—
I sip
from things
that wilt
so brief—
the feast
of bloom.

When
I return—
I am
furred
in the dark
green world
of a caterpillar—
but when
you make me
dream
I feel
like a butterfly.

Should we just have never embarked on this Exodus?

Maybe then I wouldn't have to be present in a future enraptured by your absence.

I look for you in the unfamiliar, pleading for a chance to atone for the times I didn't love you the way your spirit asked me to; begged me to.

I think life is sort of funny like that.

It gives us grief and torment, undertoned by conditions of stability and commitment, still masked by peace and contentment.

Life won't tell you "This suffering shall be yours after you've given shadow and sin,
bones and dreams,
beginnings and unendings"

It will let you know however, that forever is a fickle concept.
An anomaly of truth. An unworthy penance.

Forever is today telling you tomorrow won't be guaranteed, yet you defer and let momentous pleasure consume you.

Forever is you right now, unravelled, unmade, wondering when it will finally be you.

Life won't tell you "This suffering shall be yours when you're left with answers to questions you were scared to ask".

You assume shame should be a stark reminder, that maybe grace and longevity weren't meant to have been breathed into your "always".

Or maybe loving him was the only way to afford a glimpse of misfortune; what could never be if the two of you had become.

But that's not you, is it?

For you shame is nothing compared to the cold indents in your waist where his hands once took residence.
Or the ache between your legs where  futures were built in the stillness of nights and raucous of mornings.

Shame is nothing compared to his words of adoration to another; unshakable dedication to another.

Shame is nothing compared to this emptiness

To these words.

To the forever that never was

The moon has seen everything,
but it never speaks.
It just lingers—
half-lit, half-lost,
dragging tides and secrets in its wake.

I asked it once,
"Did he ever mean it?"
"Will the ache dissolve like salt in water?"
"Why do I still dream in his voice?"
The moon only blinked,
a quiet refusal wrapped in silver.

Nights like this,
I fold myself into the dark,
press my ear against the silence,
listening for answers
that do not come.

Maybe love is just a sky full of questions.
Maybe healing is learning
to stop waiting for the moon to reply.