A fish sleeps in the clocktower
and dreams of teeth made of clouds—
You asked me,
“What color is silence?”
and I said,
“The one no eye can hold.”
We buried a ghost in a book of feathers—
each word a spine,
each sigh a storm.
I found your voice
pressed like a fossil in my ribs,
and the stars stitched your name
into my lungs with moon-thread.
The sky?
She remembers our names
when even we forget them.
:: 07.10.2025 ::
I
Tonight the streetlights buzz like tired veins—
a dying swarm of sodium stars.
I walk their broken cadence
through canyons of concrete ribs
where storefronts unravel like wounds in cloth.
Somewhere a siren spirals out
losing altitude between towers
the color of unslept nights.
II
From the overpass I watch freight cars drag their iron hymns—
rust-throated, unrepentant—
across the spine of the republic.
Their wheels spit sparks that settle on snow
and melt it into small, black oceans.
Each boxcar carries an afterthought:
grain gone sour, machines with missing lungs,
a flock of paper flags that forgot what wind is.
III
The city’s clock has swallowed its own hands.
Time moves only sideways now,
like rats along the girders of the collapsed arena
where children once rehearsed applause.
In the husk of the cathedral
rain collects in the baptismal font—
a slick mirror reflecting nothing but the ceiling’s wound.
The bells are cracked,
yet every hour they still remember to bleed.
IV
I find you in the terminal,
a shadow bent over the last timetable.
Your eyes keep searching the departures
though all the destinations have been sewn shut.
We speak in the grammar of static:
half-words, vapor,
the low hum that lingers when a screen goes dark.
Outside, snow papers the entrances,
signing our names in white noise.
V
And yet—
A hush, thin as birdsong, threads the wreckage.
It gathers in gutters,
lifts the ashes from our coats,
shows the moon how to mend its own face.
Under that pale stitch of light
I feel the faint gallop of tomorrow—
fragile, feral, absurd—
rising somewhere beyond the busted horizon.
Like a flag we refuse to burn
it flutters, invisible,
insisting there is still a sky.
:: 04.25.2025 ::
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 ::
Your name
is still inside my mouth
like a bruise I begged for.
The room
smells like surrender—
jasmine,
salt,
the ghost of a star
you tore from my throat.
My thighs remember you
in languages
older than Earth—
every sigh
a translation
of your ache
into mine.
We didn’t just touch—
we undid time.
My pulse stammered
into your rhythm,
and we both forgot
our names
for a while.
You asked me nothing.
And I gave you
everything.
Now—
between your breath
and mine,
there is only
the hum
of something sacred
and wrecked.
Not love.
Not lust.
But that raw after-thing
that clings to the sheets
like confession.
I am not clean.
I am not sorry.
I am yours.
:: 04.13.2025 ::
Now you getting paid to work?
well, you ain’t no nigger now cause you
a working man now. Right?
:: 04.6.2025 ::
a finger unbuttons the sky
blue spills out like old music
& a fish recites the alphabet
backward — in Braille —
on the walls of your skull
your thoughts wear ballet shoes
tied by the tongues of clocks
—time hiccups—
and your name dissolves
into a bouquet of
untranslatable
questions
meanwhile
the moon paints your shadow
on the inside of my ribs
with feathers stolen
from a blind swan’s dream
:: 04.01.2025 ::
WHEN I WAS
When she was
stiff and brand new—
she breathed only halfway,
like I did
when I came back from death,
a soft weight
wrapped in my mother’s arms
running toward
fluorescent salvation.
there was a cost—
you feel it in the joints,
in the clicks of becoming
a machine,
an engine,
a child
re-learning breath.
i touched her gently—
checked her rhythm,
spoke to her warmth.
turned the key
like i once turned back
to this world.
she sputtered,
jerked—
the way i did
before memory locked in.
and slowly,
we found our motion.
low to second to high—
the hum like heartbeat.
around the corner of something divine
i pressed down,
gave her the juice—
and she came alive.
first ride,
first taste,
and we both knew—
this was joy borrowed
from some distant grief.
on return,
i stopped her with care—
both hands—
brought her trembling
into quiet.
as I once was.
as I still am.
giving you
what’s left of the cake.
IS there a time
where everything
is okay? I’d never
forget where you were
at all when realizing
reality is not
what we think
but always what we feel
~~ so clear the tears/like
ice melting \ it bruised
our face:
The “feeling” of reality
is not scientifically correct
but romantically perfect.
and how i love you
and everyone in your time
\.
:: 03.06.2025 ::
the title is not a poem
but a thesis
I am the word before it’s breathed,
a whisper caught in fate’s own weave.
A thought unshaped, yet burning bright,
a flicker lost between the night.
I am the ink that mourns the quill,
the silence longing to be filled.
A stanza stitched in fleeting thread,
a lyric born when stars have bled.
I am the page the wind has turned,
the ember’s ghost, the lesson learned.
A voice that lingers past the crest
of dying light and hearts confessed.
I am the poet, yet the muse,
the echo sung in verses bruised.
And when the final breath is drawn,
I’ll live within the words once gone.
LUDWIG
The Unheard Symphony
The Silence played so loud it broke
The air within the Room
A Fugue unwoven Measureless
A Chord of Soundless Doom
The Fingers of the Tempest stirred
The Notes refused to bow
Yet in the hush an Echo rang
Beyond the Mortal brow
The Violin was never struck
The Keys denied their plea
And yet a Symphony arose
Conducted wordlessly
A God unseen His Hands became
The Whisper in the Air
And in that Soundless Thundering
The Deaf Composer Heard.
:: 01.31.2025 ::
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E.P. Robles | Poetry 
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