i am well acquainted
with the burning
west where light
bleeds into the treeline
the sun a wound
that opens slowly
into the skin of evening
into the old familiar
ache of ending
i am less acquainted
with your window
facing the same
unraveling
the same fire
thinning to ember
over fields i have
never stood in
your silhouette
a petal caught
in the same undoing
—lyra moon (two distant sills, one shared twilight)
june 3, 2026