Poétique

Boundary Recoil

Not A Title,
Not A Fixed Name

Spoken Once And Held Forever—

But A Pattern
That Keeps Returning
Like Breath Against A Window

⸻

I Have Not Chosen One Life
I Have Followed What Repeats

I Build,
Again And Again—
Small Worlds Of My Own Making,
Tea, Rooms, Language,
Places That Hold A Certain Feeling

I Move Toward What Has Texture—
Sound, Air, Light,
The Way A Place Speaks Without Asking

And When Something Tightens,
When It Asks Me To Become Smaller
Than I Know Myself To Be—

I Leave

Not As Failure,
But As Correction

Consent
Coherent grief

⸻

There Are Lives That Stand Still
And Call That Certainty

Mine Moves

It Gathers,
It Refines,
It Rearranges The Atmosphere
Until Something Quiet Inside Me Says:

Yes, This Is Closer

⸻

I Do Not Arrive
I Tune

I Do Not Declare
I Return

And What Keeps Returning—
That Is The Path

In My Company
Μου Αρέσουν Τα
Πουλιά, Οι Γάτες Και Τα Σκυλιά

⸻

Not Straight
Not Secure
But Unmistakable
In Its Repetition

Something New Like
Its Own Resurrection

Paroxysm

Funny how we let go
And get jerked back

What is the pull of
Forgetting and
Remembering

Missed opportunities
Forgotten cares

Returning only to
Haunt us again
After

Letting go twice
Of what we
Had once

Left to recall
What we no longer wanted
At least once more

A tug
A pull

And we let it
Float away again

Ανείπωτα

If I’m telling the truth
Even with all of that love surrounding me
I’ve never wanted to die from the
Grief so much in my life

We were once a very beautiful thing. I’m getting closer to nothing.

I think I cried myself to death
I’m not sure now what is left

Why reach back out into the past
Nothing left for us to ask

Once what was lived can also go
Just a memory of a show

Block the pain
Disrecord the memories
No more heroes in the sun
Gods eating their children

Until Zeus arrives
His mother carried a stone
A protection from the teeth
That met the demise of
Every child before

I am the stone

Cerveau des Étoiles

What would it take
To pull me out of this hole
There are only
So many stars left in the
Sky to love me this way

Even typing is difficult
So the outer space
Begins to inscribe
Upon my heart

What my hands cannot do
Does the world grow tired
Of my words

Will they crave what the
Planets choose to write

Can I crack my brain
Open enough to poor the
Plenty in

To sink and drink me in
A portal
What is the traditional
Recipe of life
A paste of pleasure
Our souls simmered
In red wine

Come back tomorrow
Find your tastebuds
Waiting for you
At a table with friends

No longer strangers

Ugly

Even a gift can be ugly.

It doesn’t arrive in silk
or land softly in the hand—
it drags itself across the floor,
loud, uneven,
refusing to be mistaken for grace.

You thought relief would feel like light.
Instead, it felt like friction—
paper instead of air,
checks instead of ease,
a system that stutters where you once smoothed.

But what you called smooth
was your own body absorbing impact.

You were the silence
that made everything look like harmony.

Now the noise has somewhere else to live.

They call it awkward.
You call it visible.

They call it inconvenient.
You call it accurate.

And accuracy is not pretty.

It has edges.
It names who carries what.
It refuses to blur.

This is the gift—
not polished, not gentle,
not grateful for being received.

It is the return of weight
to the hands that generated it.

It is the end of invisible labor.

It is the moment the structure stands
without you holding it up from underneath.

Even a gift can be ugly.

Especially the ones
that give you back to yourself.

Becoming

Can someone explain to me
Why all my limbs
Are falling asleep

What will become
Of me in three years time

Will there be enough to
Survive

How much it matters now
Responds with distance

We live for today
Today becomes our future
What happens later
If there’s not enough

We become tired
Almost a whisper
Of our past

The thing that shaped us
Disappearing

What will become
What will become

One More

We have parted —
We have outgrown the form
That contained us.

What we called — and “with”
Was a seam under tension —
Two truths pulling in opposite directions.

So I did not leave you.

I left our version
That can no longer contain reality.

Love has died —
It has changed shape,

Just subtly enough to survive.

And somewhere beyond the wreck,

Without needing to be held back or held back,

If
We are ever —
Untouched.

The women they talk
The men they walk
Alone to one another
Little pockets of experience
I fight the system
Gazing at their every days
It is less isolating
Sun is sinking into
My skin
Stretch to reach for
Direction with drums
Broken conversation
Enormous effort
Every drop
I have to give
Is to reflect
A love I see
In every face
Ancient reflections
Upon the bare soil
Unexplained explosions
Shifting colors
Bleeding into me

Hospital

Time is temporary
Love is permanent

Wherever we are
Halfway across the world
Will you stay alive
Long enough for me to return

We were abandoned
We fought we held on

Nothing holds us
Like we hold ourselves

Then we hold one another
In the absence of the physical

The sun is burning
Brightly

I won’t sleep any longer
All the rest I could need

Will not give me the
Security of your existence

My gravity is a magnet to you
Before I was ready to go
You could leave me first

Am I your heart attack
They all say it’s not my fault

Protecting ourselves
From what

One last touch
One last kiss

Are we our end
Or do we assume
Too much power

Believe

Do not believe
What is not yet known

What is unknown
Is not yet ours to think
We know

Nor should we think that
We know

To trust in someone’s
Word is to think that
We know

But to trust blindly
Is to confuse what
We know

We do not sit but refrain
From pretending what
We know

Rushing to fill the void
With false certainty of what
We know

Deceives the soul