love is a pocket of sky—

a small bright chaos fluttering inside my ribs,
a paper bird that misplaced the word ground.
i wear its wings until they blister—soft silver blisters—
for love invents new ways to suffer in velvet, & i agree to every syllable.

tears are the quietest plural of rain; they trace unnamed continents
down my cheeks (hello, moon-eyed friend melancholy)
and teach my skin to remember salt as gospel.

but melancholy is no villain—she is a lantern with the flame turned low,
a hush that braids hours to echoes,
tucking stray seconds into your sleeping palm.

so let us—yes—sing, tenderly broken, wonderfully whole,
in the awkward lowercase of tomorrow:
for love, for tears, for the delicious ache of being,
even when ache is all we are!

:: 04.25.2025 ::