Wake me in the mornings,
when love feels still and tight.
I hold your light against my sorrow,
Carrying grief into the promise
of your tomorrow.

I wake to darkness all around,
Silence thick, with no way out.
A sound so faint, it fades away—
Dissolving where all once felt as one.
Yet now, nothing seems to align.
I cry out, I scream: “Give me a sign!”

Morning tears fall soft and slow,
Evening drops too soon, too low.
Stars cascade across the moon,
Shades of deepening blue consume,
As I lie still inside my cocoon.

If my stupidity reaches such a sublime level that it surpasses the apparent cleverness of those who thought they had outsmarted me, is it then possible that my apparent stupidity is in fact the ultimate cunning — even outwitting the very stupidity that made me seem stupid?

If I can sense that I exist,
Then here’s the thought I can’t resist:
How could I ever truly see
If you exist apart from me?

For if the you can’t feel the I,
Then who is real, and who’s a lie?
And if I’m all who truly knows—
Am I alone, or just suppose?

What if the I is where you’re not,
A vacant point, a silent spot?
And all we are is thought and dream,
Reflections in a shifting stream.

Am I the seer of what I find,
The silent voice inside the mind?
The hush that gives me all that is,
The space between, the pause, the kiss?

And if that’s me, though now unclear,
In time, I’ll surely reappear
In that one place—however far—
Where you already are.

While I emerged from no one’s time, you are what has not yet been named. Beyond the end of origin, the first scream fell silent. To remain forgotten, a name rises without echo — and yet, it resounds.

Stay away and draw near. I do not yet exist, and that… that is becoming. They explain nothing, and yet you understand the cause without effect, the light without source. That is nothing. You perceive everything as an unwritten page.

Shadow is light when it appears reversed. I breathe within it, without form. And you may awaken in my non-being. Do not carry me — catch me. Touch nothing as one touches what has not yet shaped me — the other in your never-begun time.

I feel no step, only direction. Though we never bloomed, we still bore seed. And nothing is complete, so we do not measure it. This is the now that never was — and yet, it waits. You had nothing, and thus, you had everything. You were silent in sound, and I sang in emptiness. It brought me neither to death nor to life.

One more glimpse of my nameless existence — so you may not be allowed to wish, but you are. Avoid the noon within the morning. Look backward toward the forward. Life is invisible and touches without contact.

There — precisely there — no source flows, but origin. I am what has not yet ended. I do not breathe, but exist between your knowing.

And soon? Has already been. And now? Has not begun. Because you were everything in nothing: do not open me, but know that I never was. The hour in which no animal called out belongs to no one.

You are not friend, not foe — but moment. Not blessing, not curse. Not dream, not memory. Not bud, not color. And so, nothing counts as something, and we descend upward as no one.

I know no other, and the world is empty of me. My body does not feel, for you are whole. You broke nothing, for nothing fell. Beneath the never-having-been, you ask of the death that never began.

And so I live in non-being, and you continue to vanish — and that is your mirror: never repeated.

Telling my love to the woman,
her hair long, dark, and blonde.
The morning rose earlier,
and in her eyes lay braids,
pearls, and stones.

Her mouth,
rosy-red like a rose
in grandma and grandpa’s forest.
The cheeks on her face
were pink,
as if her hair made her blush,
laugh, and cry.

He presses her into the quiet of her own place, while she lifts him to where his ears ring with love—in stance and space