"right here, right now"

all we have is right now—
that morning you dropped your umbrella
and puddles burst into applause

looking for the right person—
then seeking the right time—
chasing seconds like fireflies

pinpointing the right place:
location, location, location—
our compasses spinning free

so here’s the thesis: home lives in joined footsteps—
come wander with me
when all we’ve got is right here... right now



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"Rusted Harp"


Strings crust over
like ancient ossuary bones,
once vibrant with touch,
now mute in neglect.

Each pluck would be agony—
a resurrection of rust,
a hymn to how
we let beauty corrode.




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"The Meagre String"

In a dusty corner
the final string trembles—
a solitary note aching
                   to become a verse.

It breathes its solitude
                  
                  into splintered wood,
praying its fragment of promise
                   still sounds sacred,
even missing the choir’s embrace.





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The moon
lifts its bright cloak
high in the sky,

unraveling time’s knots
without a sound, and
the wind pours whispers
into yearning,

weaving
its swift wakefulness
through the night.





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Español

La luna
alza su manto
claro en el cielo,

deshilacha los nudos
del tiempo sin ruido,
y el viento derrama
susurros al hastío,

bordando
en la noche
su ágil desvelo.





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"for whom the bells toll"

Imagine standing at the edge of day,
                roused not by birdsong
but by a single, unclaimed toll.

As you read, pay attention
       to how that sound
becomes more than noise—
how it might carry stories
    you’ve left unspoken.

Notice the careful beat of each line
and the quiet spaces it leaves behind.
Rather than telling you what to feel,

the poem lets its unnamed bells
                          become your guide
through dawn’s uncharted moments.





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"Pastry Saltry"

I woke this morning in a buttery daze,
heart folded like dough, kneaded and praised.

You strolled in, glistening with pretzel grace—
salt crystals winked on your powdered face.

We rose on warm gusts, flaky promises spun—
together the world tasted half sugar, half sun.

"Archive Soul”
  
An archive opens:  
folder titles like breaths you forgot.  

Inside, your silhouette fractalised—  
flesh parsed into metadata.  

Memory = 84% accurate.  
Love = untagged.






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