"Funny. I don’t recall suggesting it."

"You didn’t. But you stood next to it once—
sighing dramatically. Felt like a literary omen."

"I sigh near bad coffee too. Doesn’t mean you should drink it."

"Well, I drank the book. And now I’m addicted. Your fault."

"Great. Another person blaming me for their emotional spiral."

"Don’t flatter yourself. I only followed the breadcrumbs of your tragic taste."

"Tragic? I call it refined."

"Keep telling yourself that, Kafka-lite."

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is not sung to end—
it folds, like breath into sea-foam,
where nothing leaves,
but only changes
the shape of return.
//Captioned//

-

Same street, same hour—
different century,
still no him.

-

clouds copy the sea—
a mimicry of meaning
midway into form.
what isn’t said still circles,
nesting in not-yet-knowing.

-

you see—
is no virtue in repose;
it's the startled yes
before love’s lesson begins—
like my mother’s hand, it stays.
//Captioned//

-

perhaps a citadel of thirst,
built from the spines of
vanished summers,
perhaps a nameless flame,
devouring its own altar.
//Captioned//

-

braided light into absence,
and absence into longing—
a lattice of almosts, shivering
in stillborn air.
//Captioned//

-

a sliver in the undone hour,
swaying where thought
forgets its face.
//Captioned//

-

Drenched was I—
in thy soft syllables,
Names lost to the winds
that spake once and no more.
Like flames, we became
nameless.
//Captioned//

-

wear the ache of things unsaid—
they press like palms
against the thinning glass of thought.
//Captioned//

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