Somewhere between the wave’s rise  
and its folding back into itself,   
I felt the salt change weight in my hands.

The water no longer blurred the edges —  threads began to show through the foam, knots glinting like shells in the shallows.

I was still wet with the reading,  
but already leaning toward the loom,   ready to watch the weaving happen.



.

Between wave and return  
       the salt grew heavier in my hands.

Foam thinned to threads,  
       knots glinting in the shallows.

Still wet with the reading,  
       I leaned toward the loom.

the scrolls stare back like a shopfront window
where the mannequins wear my metaphors,
   price tags swinging from their wrists.

           You didn't shake their wrists,

           but I saw it nonetheless—
      tags fluttering away like pale,
    misunderstood butterflies.




.

A tide‑glass hour ends before the sand, but the sea keeps counting.

A ring compass points north yet circles my finger like a vow.

Even broken, a lantern shard keeps a fragment of the night inside.

North waits for no tide; it circles in gold.

A vow can light the way, even in shards.

The night ends before the sand, and the sea continues counting.



.

the scrolls tilt on their shelves
        as the ground shifts,
                   glass trembling

with the weight of heirlooms and
wings—beyond the frost line:
                     a small planet turns,

its orbit tugging at the tags that rise
                         —like butterflies
   from these wrists of stone.




.

seasonless

           constellation

                          silence

                                   spoken

what bleeds and what belongs?

skin still keeps secrets years on
but it also remembers
how you chose to stay—
even when the red
ran louder than you meant.

In the white theatre of the gale,
a barn’s vermilion gates
and the woolen scarlet of kin
stand like beacons to the lost.

The air is a script of whirling ash,
yet in the hearth’s small kingdom
rosehip constellations drift
through the dark gold sea of tea —

                      omens of return,
of warmth wrested
          from the storm’s        
                               dominion.





.

The years have grown
moss over my name,
my transgression carved
into memory’s vestibule
always finding there
one chair turned away,
its back carved with
the shape of your absence.



.