wilting flowers watered with melted icicles

~ april twenty-fourth, 2025 ~

24. beyond anything

i use only my own pitch black shadow
to dip in a quill for ink.
when another's shadow is on my lips,
it is only to pull me out like a fish on a line
from the chopping dark waters,
only for a split second.
but it is my darkness i stare into each day,
the cracks in the mirrors,
pretending i fall into an abyss
slipping from the surface, flailing limbs.
i cannot fathom rolling someone else's void on my tongue,
because some part of me wants to
believe someone else's shadow can change,
but mine cannot.
either way, it is easier to believe
that the fault is at my feet
(something i could have controlled)
than nothing moving the Earth
(out of reach, out of security).

~ april twenty-fifth, 2025 ~

25. where the storybook ends

once upon a time there was a girl who lost everything she ever was.
colorful sidewalk hopscotch, scribbled drawings with crayons and paint,
brightening her face because life just seemed too easy,
too simple.

once upon a time there was a man who never knew who he was.
he drew his painting in the mirror, over his reflection, over his face,
until it was just color that could be seen there.
or maybe he just never dared to look.

~ april twenty-sixth, 2025 ~

26. swampiness

i wade through the marshes
searching for something beneath the surface,
or pushing away grass to make way for my footprints.
tadpoles scurry underwater,
dragonflies hover over the water's surface.
none of it is seen, as my
feet are pulled down,
even in the shallow, still water.
no rocks can cut my feet,
but i still imagine that they bleed underneath.

~ april twenty-seventh, 2025 ~

27. nothing between

i do not know why
my hair grows thick before my face
in each mirror reflection.
i thread through to the roots,
something beneath colored or uncolored follicles,
or perhaps where the hazelnut ombres into black.
yet i unearth nothing,
pulling from the tangles,
untying knots
just and new ones twist together.
i pull it in three,
over and under,
but no strings pluck a song of revelation,
no strands spin a storybook tapestry.
and so hot iron
pushes them to hug each other close-
no, not hug.
stand beside each other.

~ april twenty-eighth, 2025 ~

28. between the branches

a tree can listen.
muffle the leaves' rustle
so it may hear us.

but it fears humans,
killing God's child more than flame.
does not want to hear.

(do you really wanna know where I was...)

~ april twenty-ninth, 2025 ~

29. leafing through pages

there are times when the narrative is something
looming to turn the page but
no words can be written to describe the next chapter.

~ april thirtieth, 2025 ~

30. mapping constellations from the sparks

the first man to light a flame
must have never celebrated as much as he should.
maybe he was the one standing
closest to prometheus when he stepped on mortal soil,
or a prophet sent by God,
i'm sure he was more rejoiced
at the warmth of his veins
that he never realized how many fires
would be lit after that.

(we still rekindle lost warmth,
though nights draw long and frigid,
and ice pierces like needle and thread through our skin,
some match can be let, some wood can catch fire,
always,
always.
fire,
the power to bring
light, heat, warmth, and
death
all at once.
and can be nurtured by the hands of a human.
what a world we live in
to hold such beauty in our hands.)

i fear one day i will be the last one
to turn off the light,
to blow out the candle,
to allow Earth to plunge into darkness once again.
my hands will be at the end of time,
coating the embers in baths,
burying the coals in blankets.
and tendrils of smoke will remain unseen
in a place of darkness.
whether they flicker or fade out,
it will feel the same as any
End.

[~ april thirtieth, 2025 ~

31. wilting flowers watered with melted icicles

i want to pluck the flower i left trodden on the ground.
or remain pallid in consequentiality.

(i know some day she will return,
or she will find this garden,
blooming petals under the sun,
freezing roots over the cold.
she will wonder why i strayed so far from home.)

if this is home,
perhaps i do not know where that is.
(i think it was here)
because anywhere i go,
snow falls and flowers bud.

let's go home.

]