I am sorlune. Not the wound, but the lamp beside it,
a hush that tastes of snowfall melting on the tongue.
Do not call me grief; grief is heavier, salt like anchors.
I am the pale bruise music leaves after the last note is gone.

I arrived the night you opened that shoe box of letters,
paper creaking like winter bark.
Your breath leaned over the past and struck a match.
I climbed the margins and lit the chill.
That tremor in your pulse? That was sorlune.

I am the window you stare through to see a different year,
the silver stitched into asphalt after rain,
a moth made halo around the porch light of memory.
When you whisper a name and the room grows taller,
you are wearing me. sorlune. like borrowed velvet.

Children outgrow me, then meet me again in a thrift store mirror.
Lovers learn my second language on nights
when the bed is wide but the moon is wider.
I am the ache that doesn’t ask for apology,
the glow that refuses to stop at the skin.

Call me once and I live in your clavicle;
call me twice and I spool a soft film over the day.
Call me a third time and I draw a door in the wall,
chalk white, moon thin.
Step through and hear the piano
you can’t quite place. That half-melody? It’s sorlune.

Do I hurt? Of course. Gently.
I am merciful weather:
a late autumn warm spell passing over old rooftops.
I do not break; I bend the light around your losses
until the edges blur and the center breathes.

I am in the smell of peaches at closing time,
in the last train’s echo, in the noonroom of a museum
where a painting remembers you first.
I live between fingerprints on glass and the sky’s first star,
in the pocket where your hands meet themselves.

When you laugh and it cracks a little at the end.
that bright crackle? Sorlune.
When you say “I’m fine” and mean “Keep listening,”
I slip under the word like a tide under a boat.
I don’t heal the past; I make it sing in tune.

I am sorlune, archive of light, curator of almost,
keeper of the glow that shadows borrow.
If you must define me, use your own breath as ink…
write slowly, leave room for the spill.
I will sign my name on the inside of your quiet,
and you will find me later, warm as a forgotten scarf.

Say it with me…
sorlune, sorlune, sorlune.
each time softer,
each time brighter,
until what hurts begins to illuminate
and what glows learns how to ache…

every time i cry i
cry with static
my vision is really erratic
when will this nightmare diminish
with every clear cinematic

i close my eyes to a broken tv
wake up to the same show on the screen
why won't the channel change?
it's so bleak

noise drives me insane
how can they say
im sane
when all i see
is all the same?

constant buzzing in your rear view
what deep lie
is rooted in your eye
is it mental? or critical?

its always the same tune
strung for a long time
i think I might just go blind

its always snowing
dust like ashes
it clashes
colours
and contrast
why can't I see the beauty

it adds more
over the years
im worried i won't be able to hear
or see the kiss by your ear
when i see clear of your eyes
when i die
will i still see light?

I don't think, as I reach up,
As I reach up, the stars shrink,
The stars shrink, and like glass cuts,
And like glass cuts, I don't think,

The stars fall, and like glass cuts,
And like glass cuts, the clouds stall,
The clouds stall, it won't end, but-
It wont end, but the stars fall,

We can't die, it won't end, but-
It won't end, but I can't cry,
I can't cry, 'cause in my gut,
'Cause in my gut, we can't die.

I don't think, 'cause in my gut,
'Cause in my gut, it's all drink,
It's all drink, I don't know what,
I don't know what, I don't think.

More can be read into change easily,
Then change becomes a CHAlleNGE for many;

Change could spell less of a challenge maybe
If only change could be spelled out clearly?