you touched my cheek
as the sun melted into its grave
and I swear the clouds wept,
bleeding copper and violet

your voice—
a frayed lullaby
threading through
my breaking

the world
slowed to an ache
and in that hush,
even the wind knelt

you smiled
like it wouldn’t be the last
but I saw the sky
forget how to breathe.

I plant a garden with trembling hands—
then salt the soil at dawn.
I lace the sky with paper birds
then chase them off with storm songs.

I cradle peace like porcelain,
but breathe too hard,
and shatter it.

The mirror forgives me
until I touch it.
Then it cracks—
right where my face lives.

I keep building bridges
out of wax and wishbones,
then light them from both ends
just to see
if anyone notices
me
burn.

Some nights,
I set fire to every chance I prayed for,
just to prove
I don’t deserve warmth.

And still—
I water the ashes,
hope something bruised
might bloom again.

The new moon.
Present, yet unseen.

I’ve spent some time thinking of if we’re
meant to be,
if your you and my me could now make
a we,

and don’t kid yourself about who you
want to see,
because I want to help you see how free
we can be,

you take— one breath— it blows my world away,

you say— one word— you’ll have me here to stay

Moments pass wrapped in foil,
crunchy—sticky—
smearing chocolate thin,
leaving the wrapper torn,
left behind like trash.

In the cradle of crucibles, molten dreams pour,
Carbon and iron, alloyed to endure.
Cast steel cools in molds of intent,
Grain-bound strength in every dent.

Machinist’s dawn, the lathe hums low,
Tool meets stock in a tempered flow.
Torque and touch, precision’s dance,
Each pass a whisper; each cut a chance.

Spiral curls like silvered vines,
Long and laced in looping lines.
Blue-tempered ribbons, heat-kissed and proud,
Singing of friction, sharp and loud.

Short chips snap with brittle grace,
Scattered stars in a metal space.
Dust-fine swarf, a powdered veil,
Ghosts of edges, cold and pale.

Boring deep through hardened skin,
Contours carved from deep within.
Threads emerge like ancient runes,
Spun in silence, shaped by tunes.

Mill and drill, the chorus grows,
Steel responds in rhythmic throes.
Each shaving tells a tale of strain,
Of force, finesse, and measured gain.

So let the coolant mist and gleam,
A machinist’s breath, a craftsman’s dream.
For cast steel speaks in shavings made,
In every curl, its strength displayed.

I.
Box fans and mowers drone below,
distant traffic murmurs through summer’s heat.
Memory presses: teeth and old thunder.
Regret. Punishment. Hope. Repeat.

My ears ring with histories,
sometimes cicadas, sometimes sermons,
sometimes her humming, barefoot by the creek,
sometimes the sting of my father’s belt.

Sunlight slants through bloated magnolia leaves,
thick as tongues,
slick with old rain.
It stains the walls with a color like yolk,
like aging joy.

II.
I wake in moonlight,
before the rumble.
Step barefoot onto concrete
still warm from the last sun.

The sky is full of stubborn stars,
hung from the last funeral.
I watch. I wait.
No birds yet. No breeze.
I stay.

I tell myself this is peace.
But the silence knows better.