pikapmoomm

I have written a thousand lines in her silence,

and still,

I ache for a door with no knob,

a hinge that swings in the sigh of dusk,

where names dissolve like sugar in tea—

too bitter here, I’ve drunk enough.

This world is a rabbit cage, not a hole,

its clocks bite back, its mirrors judge.

I wear my smile like a borrowed mask,

but my shadow remembers the grudge.

Let me slip through a card-cut seam,

where the sky bends like a question mark,

and logic sleeps in the crook of dreams,

and I’m just a whisper in the dark.

No “you again,” no “where’ve you been?”

No lineage stitched in thistle thread—

only nonsense blooming in quiet meadows,

and strangers who’ve never seen me dead.

Let me go where riddles cradle me,

and I am no one—just a thought—

a teacup ghost with feathered steps,

I loved you like a painter loves the red—

not for the color, but the blood it speaks.

I took you in like hunger takes the bread,

like craving carves the tongue when silence peaks.

Your voice—my famine’s final symphony,

a marrow-music I could never waste.

I drank your name in gulps of ecstasy,

each syllable a richer, riper taste.

You were the art I could not leave untouched,

the canvas that I bruised with reverent teeth.

To love you was to hunger far too much,

to chew through grief for what lay warm beneath.

I’ve kissed you like a priest would kiss a knife—

my love for her does not break—

though i do,

over and over,

in the quiet where her absence hums.

she is all porcelain grace:

a ballerina balanced on the thinnest wire,

spinning flawless illusions

in the breathless dark.

she is butterfly wings—

gossamer, untouchable—

but i have learned

that silk can cut,

and soft hands can wound

without ever closing into fists.

once, i brushed the edges of her—

barely a touch—

and something shattered.

not her.

never her.

she only smiled,

poised in the ruin she left behind,

as i splintered silently beneath her gaze.

i wonder how it is

to dance so weightless

upon the bones of those

They did not fashion hearts to bear such fervor—

mine,

a tempest sealed in flesh,

ever swelling against the delicate panes

of finer souls.

I cleaved to them

as ivy clutches ruin,

rooted deep in the mortar,

oblivious to what I undid

with my yearning.

Too oft did I press my affections

as one might press

a hand upon a broken limb—

with hope to mend,

but naught but pain to yield.

They called me

an affliction of spirit,

too brimming,

too unsparing,

the sort to splinter joy

with the weight of wanting.

Time and again,

they slipped from my hold

as blood slips through an overzealous grip—

I sought to preserve

and in doing so,

bled it dry.

I have been left

like a garment too heavy with rain,

hung and forgotten,

not for lack of beauty

but for the burden I became

there is a hush that follows me—

not silence,

but the breath before a storm.

a presence lingers in the rafters

of my ribs,

humming low

as if it were once holy.

i go where the cold things gather,

where sorrow wears a gentle face

and even the light

is a little afraid

she lit no candles.

the dark was deliberate—

soft as velvet turned inside out.

her hands did not ask.

they arrived like dusk—

gradual, certain,

pulling the light from the room without apology.

her skin tasted of citrus and sleep.

her breath caught in my hair

like it had been there before.

i spoke once,

barely—

and she answered with the hollow of her throat.

that was all.

just skin, and silence,

and the feeling of being

she wears silence like a shawl,

but when the light falls right,

i read her—

freckles like commas,

scars like sighs,

heat like unspoken verbs.

my mouth moves slowly along her,

as one learns a foreign tongue—

patient, deliberate,

willing to be wrong,

so long as i am near enough to learn.

she does not flinch when i speak this way.

she leans closer,

as though my breath on her collarbone

has answered a question she didn’t know she’d asked.

and when she sleeps,

i trace the soft script of her shoulder

like a final line i’m afraid to write—

not because it ends,