When the Moon Refused the Sea
I found the night beneath my nails,
black with the silence of undone prayers.
The stars were dull coins in a wishing jar
that no god ever shook.

I planted laughter in the soil
but nothing bloomed
except a vine of sighs
and the soft decay of maybe.

The wind spoke in riddles I once knew,
before language bled from my mouth
like wine from a cracked chalice.
Now even my dreams stutter
in dialects of ash.

A mirror broke inside me
the day the moon refused the sea
left the tide to curl like smoke
and the shore to whisper, “wait.”

Where are the ones who used to sing
with oil lamps lit in their ribs?
Where are the dancers
who knew how to bleed into rhythm
and still rise?

Tonight, I carry a lantern of salt.
It burns only for those
who have loved something
that could not love them back.

And still
I walk toward morning.
Barefoot.
Unbelieving.
But burning all the same.