The moon pours ink
into my lungs,
I wake
choking on stars.

I was shaped
by quiet exits
ghost-thin teachings
folded into my bones:
leave before the light asks you to.

They called it love
this soft undoing,
this art of becoming
less.

So when your hands
did not let go,
I heard
the breaking of ritual.

And trembled
a shadow
mistaking warmth
for fire.

The moon melts into my trembling hand
a lantern dripping liquid stardust.
Stars hiccup slow, spilling galaxies
across my tongue like sparkling syrup.
My feet dissolve into comet tails,
and gravity forgets its name,
letting me float sideways through syrupy nebulae,
where hiccups are constellations
and the night hums a dizzy lullaby.

Whether carved from stone or spun from light,
every heart bends and cracks,
its pieces spilling like broken planets
into the gravity of empty space.

your name rots
in my mouth.
still, it grows vines
that strangle my tongue
when i try to forget.

your laugh
plants sunflowers
in the cracks
of my tired morning.

The moon spills
its pale ruin
into my veins,
and I carry night
like a sickness
no dawn can cure.

It stains my breath
with winter’s ache,
filling my bones
with the slow collapse
of distant tides.

Even the stars
look away
ashamed to watch
what the dark
has made of me.

The moon leaves the night
to find the sun,
the sun leaves the day
to find the moon
and I stand in the shadow
they pass between them.

I weave constellations
to find the pulse of another soul,
stringing light across the emptiness
like a fragile bridge of bone.

But the sky leans in too close
and I shatter every star,
letting the darkness spill through
until even my name is gone.

You bloom
between galaxies,
a whisper in the dark
where stars go quiet.

I’ve touched you
in the petal’s curl,
in pollen floating
through forgotten light.

You were a flower
growing from meteor stone,
a garden hidden
in the hush of moons.

Each orbit,
I return.
Each bloom,
you wait.