https://archiveofourown.org/works/64769653
https://www.pixiv.net/novel/show.php?id=24547506
*****
A compilation of poems I've been writing on and off over the past year.
If a few of these seem familiar, I’ve posted some individually before. I decided to bring them all together here instead of uploading a bunch of separate "Untitled" entries. Just felt cleaner this way.
*****
Mirrors breathing softly,
eyes that blink but are not mine,
reflections that follow,
never touching, never leaving.
Murmurs curl like smoke,
spiraling into skies that bend,
raining echoes without voices,
specters that hum like stars.
I walk on threads of laughter,
hollow, dissolving beneath me—
like cobwebs on a rusted swing—
gravity pulling from all sides,
orbits I cannot see.
I spin, weightless,
in a hollow storm,
surrounded by shadow,
never close, never far.
*****
No lines to follow,
no script to betray,
only ink that drifts,
escaping the page.
I scatter words like ashes,
letters spiraling upward,
fading into sky,
where meaning dissolves.
Hushed tones curl, half-formed,
sentences shatter like glass,
shards floating in air,
refusing to land.
The pen hesitates,
caught between thought and breath,
where phantoms of ideas
linger, untouchable.
Maps tear themselves apart,
directions bending backward,
leading to nowhere,
or somewhere I can’t name.
I try to follow,
chasing echoes of phrases,
but they slip away,
laughing without sound.
I can’t give it shape,
these ghosts of intention,
no end, no plan,
only words that won’t stay.
*****
Do not search for me.
I am not here, nor anywhere you might think to look.
I am the seed cast into a wind without destination,
A fragment of breath dissolving into an air too vast to hold me.
Do you see the dandelion, trembling in the desert’s unrelenting sigh?
Its fragile crown is a map of places it will never belong,
A constellation of possibilities too far away to name.
That is all I ever was.
Worry not.
Worry is a moth,
Its wings torn and threadbare as it feasts
On the fabric of silence you try to keep whole.
Let it gnaw until nothing remains,
Until there is only the thin murmur of what once was,
Carried like smoke through a house abandoned by sound.
You wonder if anything can truly grow here,
In this barren expanse where even shadows hesitate to linger.
If pain can unfurl into petals of soft, reluctant beauty.
If silence can harden into the roots of a tree,
Its gnarled branches clawing at a sky
That has forgotten how to answer.
And yet, the desert does not mourn its emptiness.
It waits, as it always has,
Its stillness a reflection of the things we refuse to say.
This is not goodbye.
Not truly.
It is merely the unraveling of a thread too thin to hold,
The slow collapse of a clock with broken hands.
Time spirals inward,
And I step softly into the hollow between its breaths.
Not lost. Not gone.
Only misplaced,
Like a word forgotten mid-sentence,
Like a star too dim to find its way back into the heavens.
Do not pray for me.
Prayers are only echoes folded into the stillness,
Soft utterances scattering like brittle leaves
Across the endless, unlistening expanse.
Do not hold to the shape of what I was.
Memory is a house with crumbling walls,
Its foundation weakened by the weight of ghosts.
Pack your grief into a suitcase of stone.
Throw it into the river that runs backward,
Letting its heaviness sink into the silt,
Where even light will not follow.
Perhaps you will feel the absence,
Not as a wound, but as a phantom that shifts with the sun.
Perhaps, one day, the desert will bloom.
Life will emerge from the smallest seed,
Carried by the same indifferent wind that took me.
But even then,
You must not linger where I once stood.
The soil was never mine,
The sky never curved to my name.
Forget me.
Forget the way the stars folded themselves around the night,
The way love once hummed like a quiet song inside your ribs.
Forget the shape of what we were.
Even the universe forgets its beginnings—
Its stars burn out, its edges fade,
And I am no more than a whisper,
A sigh unraveling into the unending.
Do not search for me.
Do not hold this as an ending.
It is only the space where roots failed to take,
Where petals trembled but never fell.
And somewhere, in the vastness of it all,
The desert will remember itself,
The wind will carry on,
And you will learn,
As all things do,
To bloom again.
*****
I wake within the coil of a question,
its loops tightening with every breath—
a serpent swallowing its tail,
redefining hunger as completion.
The sky is a tapestry of unfinished thoughts,
threads fraying into fractals that shiver,
quivering with the tension of almost.
I move, or am moved,
over ground that pulses beneath me,
a heartbeat made of echoes,
throbbing to the rhythm of absence.
With each step, the earth sighs,
its sighs winding into spirals,
spinning onward, onward,
as if rest were a language long forgotten.
Above, the sun dangles on a chain of shadows,
its light peeling away in layers,
each one a murmur of before.
I reach to touch its remnants,
but my fingers pass through smoke,
through the memory of warmth
that never truly burned.
A door unravels from a thought,
its hinges creaking with anticipation,
the sound winding itself tight,
coiling around the spine of time.
I open it, or it opens through me—
and I fall forward,
spiraling into a room that remembers itself.
Mirrors cling to the walls like regrets,
their surfaces warping to fit my gaze,
reflecting shadows that twist,
curling in upon themselves,
never breaking, never still.
I watch as my face dissolves,
reforming again and again,
caught in the cycle of becoming.
The floor beneath me trembles,
a hum that vibrates with purpose,
repeating its song in silent circles.
I step, but the ground does not end—
it curves, a ribbon curling through space,
rolling endlessly into itself,
a loop without release.
Trees sway to invisible currents,
their branches creaking with soft sighs
wound tight as sinew,
words unsaid grinding within their bark.
Their roots burrow upward,
climbing through a sky that churns,
spinning clouds that spiral,
turning, always turning.
I reach for a fruit of stillness,
plump and silent,
hanging heavy with the promise of pause.
But it splits before my fingers touch,
revealing the wheel within,
its spokes whirring, whirring,
driving the branch to bend,
the tree to sway,
the world to spin onward.
There is a voice behind me,
or within me, or nowhere at all.
It hums without melody,
a vibration more felt than heard,
reverberating through bone and thought.
“You were always in motion,” it murmurs,
“even when you stood still.”
I try to turn,
but the air curls around me,
spiraling like smoke sucked into a void.
I am pulled along its curve,
carried forward through the knot of being,
twisting, winding,
never arriving, never done.
There is a throne at the end of the spiral,
or at its center—
a seat carved from the bones of circles,
its curves echoing the loops I’ve walked.
It fits my body before I sit,
molding itself to my form,
holding me in the grip of continuation.
I close my eyes,
but the motion persists,
a turning felt in the hollows of thought,
a rhythm that hums beneath silence.
The crown settles on my brow,
its weight a hush,
its circle unbroken,
its arc always returning.
The world tightens,
a spiral coiling into itself,
twisting onward through the echo of now.
There is no end, only the motion—
the silent spinning of what is,
of what was,
of what will be.
For silence, there is only Wonderland,
and I am the turning that will not cease,
for the echo cannot be awakened.
*****
Her form lies bare,
untouched, divine,
A masterpiece crafted by
hands of time.
Naked innocence, a radiant glow,
A purity teasing the depths below.
Hips so slender, they beg
for my hold,
Curves like whispers, both
tender and bold.
The arch of her back, a line
so sweet,
A canvas of softness
where passion meets.
Her navel a jewel, a sacred
hollow,
A path of desire my tongue
would follow.
A corrupt of purity,
trembling, unknown,
Calling to shadows, to
make it my own.
Breasts like murmurs,
small and shy,
Rising gently as breaths
comply.
Her immaculate hums, an
Unspoken plea,
A melody bound to the
primal in me.
To grip her hips, to kiss
every line,
To savor her essence, a
silent prayer,
Innocence taunting the last
I bear.
Her body's a hymn, both
tender and raw,
A paradox pulling me into
its law.
Naked and pure, she
ignites the flame,
A hunger unending, too
wild to name.
Let me linger where
Chasity dwells,
On her skin, her navel,
Where her softness looms
A worship of flesh, a
reverent dive,
Her spreading purity, the
breath in my lungs.
*****
I am outside, but not by will—
a shadow cast by walls that breathe,
their sighs heavy with rust and dust.
I linger at the edges,
where echoes tangle,
where belonging is a language
I’ve never learned.
I would step in,
if the air didn’t taste of iron,
if the ground didn’t hum with sorrow.
But distance clings to me,
an unspoken sentence,
a choice made for me
before I could choose.
So I move,
not toward, not away,
just onward—
through corridors that bend like questions,
beneath skies that ripple like gauze,
waiting for a place
that echoes my name.
And that will be enough.
*****
The dream collapsed, the world untied,
A sea that swallows all inside.
Currents twist in endless chase,
Where time dissolves without a trace.
The shore is fleeting, here, then gone,
A phantom edge where day won’t dawn.
The sky, a rupture, torn and bare,
A canvas stripped, with nothing there.
What was, what is, all blur and fade,
A ceaseless loop of night remade.
Each wave that rises drags the shore,
Leaving behind what came before.
In depths unseen, the shadows churn,
Where secrets hide and whispers burn.
A flicker lost in endless blue,
Too small to grasp, too faint for view.
The world is fractured, cold, and vast,
A splintered place that shifts too fast.
In every silence, something stirs,
A distant hum, a blur that blurs.
The dream has shattered, void and still,
A hollow echo, bitter chill.
And in the dark where nothing sings,
A fleeting breath on broken wings.
*****
In the realm of the unknown, I wander free,
Unchained by fears of where I ought to be.
I drift through days, unsure of cycles past,
Weary of struggles, hoping peace will last.
Will this be just another outline's play,
Or dawn untainted by the night’s dismay?
I'm tired of fighting echoes that persist,
Longing for peace, where shadows don’t exist.
The days of old have bid their last farewell,
Yet life moves on, with change's constant spell.
What does that make me? I do not yet know,
But I am more than where I choose to go.
In every moment, life’s a shifting tide,
A force that twists, yet in its flow, I bide.
So I surrender to the river's flow,
Unafraid of where the currents go.
In the heart of change, strength I discover,
A quiet force, a seed to uncover.
For I have always been more than that,
A boundless soul, in endless wonder cast.
In the desolate hush of twilight’s breath,
Where phantoms dance and dreams congeal in death,
A mournful murmur stirs the ancient, twisted boughs,
Carrying a hymn of sorrow, to which the wind bows.
The stars, cold sentinels in the somber expanse,
Adorn the night with their spectral, distant dance.
Under their indifferent gaze, my heart lies bare,
Exposed and withered, marred by despair’s snare.
Time, the merciless specter, a thief cloaked in gray,
Strips away moments and hopes like leaves in decay.
In the silence, profound and shrouded in chill,
An unspoken yearning stirs, a void’s forlorn will.
In the hollow of a darkened crypt,
Where echoes wither and shadows have slipped,
An essence lingers, faint and forlorn,
Crying for the dawn that never is reborn.
As I drift in the spectral embrace of night’s gloom,
Among the silent stars and the encroaching doom,
My spirit dances, a wraith in the mournful shade,
An ephemeral bloom in the darkened glade.
And perhaps, when the flowers break through my corpse,
I will find in that decay a semblance of beauty, of course.
*****
Stay with me, where shadows dance,
and reality bends beneath your touch.
You are the threads that weave my nightscape,
stitching joy and terror into vivid hues.
Colors bleed and swirl, a canvas of emotion—
saffron for happiness, deep indigo for fear,
sorrow drips in shades of violet,
anger ignites in crimson flames.
Brush strokes merge and melt,
forming shapes that defy the mundane.
But daylight, that thief,
tears us apart, steals the masterpiece.
Yet, in every twilight, I return,
falling deeper into your embrace,
through layers of painted dreams,
descending, descending, descending—
Until one night,
where the final canvas dries,
where your colors never fade,
and I remain, forever in the dream.
Come, sweet visions,
lead me home.
*****
Bathed in starlight glow,
The full moon rises again,
Summoned by your howl.
*****
I wandered through faces,
voices curling to smoke,
and the hollow wind passed through me.
Under a pale sun,
I became one shape,
heavy, dragging through dust.
Now, I am vapor,
without sky,
without soil,
without name.
My contempt was born
on the threshold,
neither in nor out,
watching doors close.
Yet my words linger,
a whisper to no one.
If you listen,
you’ll find my humanity,
locked beneath ice,
where no sun reaches.
Freed from frigid chains,
I carry only this:
emptiness echoing.
I open to all that comes—
cold rain,
hollow wind,
shadows without end.
And I remain,
formless and still,
in this cold, cold world,
where warmth is a fading fantasy.
*****
Raindrops kiss my skin,
I did not call forth the storm,
but I choose to dance.
*****
It begins in the marrow,
a shiver trapped beneath skin,
curdling warm, then cold, then nothing,
nerves coiling like roots through muscle,
pulling tight, tighter,
until the limbs forget they are limbs.
A hum creeps in—
low, droning, constant,
the whisper of wasps behind the eyes,
their wings brushing soft against bone,
a murmur just out of reach,
words tangled in static.
The air tilts sideways,
pressing heavy against the jaw,
teeth grinding to dust,
a mouth full of sand.
Swallowing is a mistake,
the throat a corridor narrowing,
walls closing in,
inch by inch.
Shapes blur at the edges,
shadows spilling out of shadows,
the room slants,
warped as if seen through water.
There is movement somewhere—
a ripple beneath the floorboards,
something crawling just below,
too slow, too patient.
Hands twitch,
fingers bending backward,
searching for solidity,
a corner, an anchor,
but the walls breathe in and out,
soft as lungs,
damp with salt.
The hum rises,
a choir of voices strangled in the throat,
nails on glass,
a scream without a mouth.
There is no beginning,
no end,
only the waiting,
the cold prick of a presence
that has always been there.
Eyes stay open,
stinging with the weight of watching,
and the ripple moves closer,
under skin,
behind the heartbeat,
a shadow within shadows,
settling in deep,
where breath goes to drown.
*****
The rooms breathe differently now,
walls bending inward,
listening for a voice that no longer breaks the air.
Corners curl like wilted petals,
paint peeling to expose
the hollow beneath.
Floors groan underfoot,
aching with the weight of emptiness,
boards straining against dust
that refuses to settle.
It moves instead, swirling,
caught in unseen currents,
dancing where footsteps used to fall.
Light hesitates at the windows,
spilling in cold and crooked,
bent around the space
where shadows once gathered.
Chairs huddle closer,
drawn by a magnetic absence,
their backs hunched,
whispering in wood.
In the kitchen, plates shiver,
stacked too neatly,
cups turned mouth-down,
holding back the echo of laughter,
cutlery lying still,
their edges dulled by silence.
There are fingerprints fossilized
on the doorframe,
stretched thin, fading,
no matter how hard the eye clings,
no matter how close the fingers reach.
The hallway narrows,
longer now, endless,
each step swallowed whole.
Time collapses in on itself,
seconds stretching wide and thin,
sagging under the weight
of words left unsaid.
The air thickens,
crushing the breath that hangs heavy,
like damp cloth over the mouth.
In the bedroom, the sheets remain folded,
creased where a body once turned,
pillow dented,
the faint scent of presence
clinging stubbornly to fabric,
thread by thread unraveling.
Silence grows here,
alive and shifting,
staring back from empty doorways,
sinking teeth into the marrow,
carving voids where memories seep,
slow and saltless,
into the waiting dust.
*****
They come wrapped in silk,
soft ribbons curling in the air,
words shaped with care,
gilded at the edges,
dripping honey so thick
it chokes.
Lips curve by reflex,
pulling taut like old stitches,
the face learns its lines,
each muscle an actor,
reciting the script of gratitude,
voice smooth as wax,
melting behind the teeth.
But beneath the skin,
a garden withers,
roots winding tight around bone,
thorns pressing inward,
scraping the sternum raw.
Petals rot before they bloom,
curling black at the tips,
the scent of decay
hidden under sweet perfume.
The words slip closer,
a velvet noose tightening,
each syllable a knot,
each smile a blade.
They dangle like bait,
glittering hooks,
sharpened by expectation.
What do they want?
Why do they smile?
What shadows crouch
behind their eyes?
A hand reaches out,
palm upturned,
fingers curved just so—
and the heart flinches,
folds into itself,
a clenched fist of muscle,
blood stuttering between beats.
No, no, no.
The air is too close,
crowding the throat,
squeezing words down to dust.
Breathing becomes a game of balance,
in and out without breaking,
without showing the cracks
where doubt seeps in.
Eyes find the floor,
searching the grain of wood,
the safety of shadows.
Don’t look up—
don’t let them see
the poison curdling under the tongue,
the disbelief tangled in the gut,
knotted tight,
festering.
They cannot know,
how the heart convulses,
stabbed by petals that never open,
how the thorns twist deeper,
rooting in the marrow,
every compliment
another blade,
another burden to carry.
*****
Hands tied with invisible thread,
pulled in every direction,
fingers bending backward,
joints creaking under expectation.
Faces blur at the edges,
eyes wide with need,
mouths moving soundless,
words tangled in the cords.
I move but do not choose,
puppet limbs jerking,
dancing to a tune
I never learned to play.
The strings tighten,
digging deep,
until I no longer know
where they end
and I begin.
*****
Heavy eyes whisper,
shadows stretch beneath the heart,
silence holds the weight.
*****
Curtains stir softly,
yellow linger on the walls,
echoes breathe alone.
*****
The morning arrives
already halfway gone.
The coffee brews itself again—
no smell this time.
Still, I sip. It’s warm enough.
The streets stretch longer than I remember,
houses leaning in like they’re listening,
windows blinking when I pass—
or maybe it’s me,
forgetting how to look.
Everyone wears the same smile,
the kind you practice
without ever asking why.
Their words arrive on cue.
Mine feel borrowed,
spoken in someone else’s mouth.
A bird sings a lullaby
I mistake for warning.
The wind answers
in a voice too smooth
to belong to anything alive.
I check the time.
The hands tick backward,
just a little.
No one seems to notice.
I fall asleep
walking through a doorway
I’ve crossed
too many times
to be sure it’s real.
I tell myself:
This is fine.
This is fine.
This is the right kind of fine.
But the clocks keep shifting their eyes
when I’m not looking.
And I wake up
before I ever get the chance
to fall asleep.
*****
Faces shift like waves,
vacant masks trace worn-out steps,
same ghost, different face.
*****
Wilted hands reach back,
grasping ghosts in borrowed days,
silence left untold.
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