There isn’t a bone in my body that doesn’t feel your absence
My joints ache for your presence, especially my knuckles
Your fingers intertwined with mine
And my knees
Not from grief, probably from running most likely

Tears don’t always fall.
They drift in the mind
like satellites
loosed from orbit,
slow-motion signals
across the blackroom of time.
Not grief,
but gravity remembering.

Love isn’t a moment
it’s a constellation
burned into the hands of an oaken clock and every breath,
a frequency that keeps pulsing
long after touch has stilled.

You never forget the day they vanished, the shape they left behind
an imprint in the air and universe
like heat after lightning,
like a silhouette scorched
into the filmstrip of your soul.

Some things pass in a second
But memory?
Memory is spacetime’s rebel.
It lingers longer than a moment itself
It's a glitch in the hourglass,
a clock that refuses
to stop ticking
even when the hands are gone
it still chimes.

They may have drifted
maybe forgotten from time to time ,
maybe just changed shapes
but when you reach inside
you still see their face
in reflections,
hear their voice
in the background static
of late-night silence.

We carry them:
in bloodline-chords,
in laughlines carved from shared jokes,
in arguments we still finish
alone.

Moments become galaxies
in the afterglow
brightbursts we revisit in an instance
when everything else fades.
Time dissolves,
but memory is ours to keep
memory is a stardust archivist.
It is our catalog of love lost and found
in the particles
we breathe without knowing.

And so we orbit one another forever
even when apart,
family and loved ones remain
a constellation-map
etched in soul-skin.

The world moves forward,
but the hands of time on some clocks refuse to reset.
Because we were built to feel
to remember,
to carry love
beyond the math of minutes and moments.

And when the universe forgets
we don’t because love lives in our hearts forever

We gather the remnants,
build temples from echoes,
and stand together
in the gravity
of what once was,
holding it all until the day memory fold us together
again

Hot, humid night
Broken air conditioning
Windows open to the
Sounds of southern summer nights
Humid skin, Humid sheets
Too uncomfortable to sleep

But now,
at least,
I can smell the trees

Night spreads its dark wings
on a faint path upwards.
Steps climb toward the dark.
The secret cave of the heart
reveals its magic to the dreamer.
Its sapphire mist veils the fikir’s
lamp within.

Along the path the ancient oak’s
strudy branches remain still.
This mountain is a place of silence
where worldly sounds fade to
ghostly whispers.

Here one enters the mist alone
far from the stirring of moonlit
wings. Searching among a thousand
clouds in the half-lightof the unanswered
question : where is eternity along the path
unknown and the courage to search
beyond reality ?

Not by rules or timelines,
not by others' silence or advice.
I will carry this grief as I must
slowly, fiercely, or quietly
but always in my own truth.

We stare at our reflections, not to comment on our beauty,
but to find something time left behind.
A glimpse, a hint, of who we used to be—but now, a non-existent phantom.
And in this silence anything is possible, but uncertainty is kind.


We ask, what is wrong?, but receive silence in return,
A remembrance of dreams we too easily passed on.
Was it the world that pulled us away,
or did we willingly drift away?


Are we lost, or simply fading,
too loud with possibilities, yet crushed by doubt?
We run in circles, chasing the light,
forgetting we were once on fire.


Maybe we are not lost, but asleep,
buried too deep in an all consuming sadness.
And maybe our healing is not meant to be too loud,
but soft little steps, while moving forward across the clouds.


So let's be gentle with ourselves when we reflect,
after all, not everyone's story is meant to be perfect.
We are not behind the eight-ball—we are simply becoming,
and sometimes, simply becoming means unbecoming.

the in between
as we
grow and learn
no one speaks of life’s
longest season
limbo
both
silent and powerful
but
frustrating and agonizing

The quicksilver moon’s not secure in her orbit.
I’ve heard that she’s slyly slipping away,
One and a half inches yearly
so a little bit every day.

I, for one, want her to stay.
‘Oh meritorious silver sister, you have no dark side,
and I’ve grown used to your capricious light,
Why do you only hover at night?”

I think of her as my own
though she wears no ring
like that showy trollop Saturn
Our moon has a higher engagement pattern.

She’s a spectacle for moon-inspired dances
and a cupid for nocturnal animalistic romances.
Have you noticed that sometimes she’s dark
and sometimes she’s bright?

What turns her on?
What turns her off?
That’s always the question with ladies,
isn’t it?
.
.
Songs for this:
Dancing In The Moonlight (feat. NEIMY) by Jubël
Fly Me to the Moon (feat. Izzie Naylor) Shoby
Moonlight Becomes You by Jeff Haislip