your keys are a small orchestra on the nightstand
and i am memorizing the layout of your collarbone
before you rewrite the borders of who you belong to
you are a wildfire looking for a forest that hasn’t burned yet
and i am trying to be the rain
but the sky is perfectly clear and my throat is full of salt
there is a third glass on the counter from yesterday
a clean shape that doesn’t include my fingerprints
you tell me that the horizon has enough room for everyone
and i nod because i want to be a spacious thing
i want to be the kind of sky you don’t feel trapped under
but my ribs feel like a fence that keeps getting smaller
i watch you put on the jacket that smells of someone else’s smoke
you are so beautiful it makes the air in my lungs feel heavy
a masterpiece that refuses to be hung on a single wall
and i am just the dark hallway you walk through to find the exit
the permanent address you leave behind to go exploring
staring at the doorway until the woodwork starts to blur
go on then and find the things that still make you shiver
unravel every secret that doesn’t wear my name
i will be right here keeping the sheets warm for your return
a ghost that forgets how to speak unless you are listening
loving you until there is nothing left of me but the outline
a wolf watching the pack run from the wrong side of the glass
— lyra moon
(we only call it freedom when we aren’t the ones left behind)
july 8, 2026