𓂀𓁣

Your body feels resurrected, but You are alone here — Make friends with whispers 

It is the secret in his wine And the river's poem Misses how the air felt Before the unannounced end 

Each forged morning Life kept dying; Emptiness perverts the beauty of chance 

Real only to body and language, I was only ever gentle  With one of them

Worlds upon worlds  And I still look too human Still, still — Between the god of resolve and the sun A lingering echo A dream of ink, both dissolving in water 

What is my breath worth? A morning dead on arrival, Useless blood

A tongue born in silence, tricked into carrying  Each language 

The melody like water on the lips, then  A struggle for air; Promises only sprout into more seeds 

I wanted to fly so he broke my legs 

He let me see clouds, made me believe  They taste of something sacred, that they Will stay, speak truth for me  That I was not born That I was just mist 

I would like to save the world, To be an angel, To have wings and a halo; I like to confide in an old god — What else is left? 

The Sun is near, Closer and scarier; I am cold, I do not know Where to find warmth

I dream of freedom I reach down my ribcage; The fur feels soft, but the animal — it just wants to die 

Analog acoustic spring The memory of sorrows It gained sweetness on my tongue 

I am hiding right behind the visible world Cradling curiosity  The unborn Sun inside me He tells me that on my fingertips  He can already see dew

If only I could fit this dawn in my palm  There is bitterness  A snake on my lips Waiting for my first breath

I want to fall for something gentle — Gentle in its ache  I will make a mistake in mid-March Learn one secret too many  Chase gods hiding in sunbeams  Catch the Moon grinning (she is secretive) (Looks closer than she should be) Head south 

The bad juju of a medicine One bought with insecurity  Still lingers in dim light; It colours the edges, and — A synthetic telekinetic — Seems to move the curtains 

More and more poison And none of it will bring The innocence of dusks back 

There is no sun to wake up to And yet I am not granted nights  Patience, presence  Between the teeth of frustration 

Do not look the Moon in the eyes When I found Her, coiled between my ribs, She wrote, with my pen: 'We are to see, not to be seen; Such is our nature'