i think about the notebook outlasting the wrist
how a line of ink might sit quiet in a drawer
long after the house is sold to strangers
it is a stubborn kind of hope
this belief that a few careful lines
could adjust the slant of light in the morning
or shift the heavy air we all have to walk through
we want so badly to push past the garden gate
past the gray edge where the water turns into cold fog
we look for some enormous architecture in the dark
the way the shadow of an ordinary chair against the wall
stretches out until it looks like a ribcage or a wing
we are a small breathing inside a locked room
trying to guess the shape of the sky outside
sometimes the floorboards make a sound in the middle of the night
a deep settling in the wood that sounds like a voice
telling us to be larger than our clothes
to let the walls dissolve into the weeds
if i am part of the draft moving under the kitchen door
then you are too
and we are both staying up past the hour of sleeping
watching the dust motes turn in the dark
hoping that if we can imagine the morning clearly enough
the world will have no choice but to wake up beautiful
—lyra moon (the ink doesn’t give a damn about the hand, only that the page remembers)
june 22, 2026