before you can know what it means to be held gently
you must watch your future dissolve like sugar in lukewarm tea
you must stand over the sink and unspool every small dream you saved
every name you whispered to yourself in the dark when no one was listening
you must let them all fall down the drain
so you can finally learn how wide and cold the desert is
between the places where anyone knows how to love you
you ride the long bus into the twilight
watching strangers chew their solitary meals
their eyes fixed on the black glass
as if they will be staring into the void forever
before you learn the soft aching gravity of compassion
you must pull over on a highway that goes nowhere
and sit beside the motionless weight left in the grass
you must look closely at the stillness
and feel the awful terrible truth that this could be you
that they too carried a pocket full of ordinary hopes
a chest that expanded with every fragile breath
a life that just wanted to stay warm
before you can let tenderness take up residence inside your ribs
you must invite grief to sit at the kitchen table
you must wake up to its heavy hand on your shoulder morning after morning
you must speak to the darkness until your voice cracks open
and catches on the thread that runs through every broken heart on earth
until you see the whole tragic garment laid out before you
and then suddenly
with no warning at all
it is only love that makes any sense
only love that bends down to lace your shoes
and walks beside you into the terrifying daylight to buy bread
only love that turns its bruised beautiful face toward you from the crowd
opens its arms wide
and whispers softly
i have been looking for you all this time
and then steps into your skin
and stays with you everywhere you go
—lyra moon (the name you whispered in the dark was the only one that answered)
july 23, 2026