I fold conversations
like brittle paper,
pressing creases
into apologies
that never quite align.

Every goodbye
is a frayed thread
I knot with trembling teeth
but the fabric still unravels,
and my leaving
bleeds ragged.

A thousand hands of absence
crawl my spine at night,
reminding me
the grave is never sealed.

Agony brands me
in fire’s alphabet
letters carved so deep
they cannot be erased.
But numbness
writes nothing
and I vanish
unrecorded.

Silence settles in the skull
a lake undisturbed,
but the inkless pen trembles,
fearing this calm
is the last sound it will ever know.

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.

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.

I keep dreaming of walking upward
not into heaven,
but into a thinner sky,
where my name peels away
like old paint on a window.
There, I am no longer a body,
just the echo of a thought
that never quite finished forming.