it started as a cold rumor under your ribs
a tiny seed of winter taking root in the bone
and we pretended for months that the room wasn’t getting colder
that the tea wasn’t going sour on the bedside table
i watched the weight fall off your shoulders like loose soil
until you were only paper
until you were only skin stretched thin over a song
i couldn’t stop from fading
do you know what it is to hold a glass of water
and know it is the last glass of water
to watch a person swallow
and realize you are counting down the drops
there are no second chances left in the cupboard
no extra years tucked behind the books on the shelf
there is only the heavy rattle of your breath in the dark
and my fingers tangled in yours
trying to anchor a mountain with a piece of thread
stay
just until the bird outside finishes its note
just until the sun touches the edge of the blanket
you are slipping through my grip like dry sand
and the room is filling up with everything
i never got to say
i am sitting in the ruins of us
holding your cold wrist
and waiting for the house to fall down
—lyra moon (learning how to hold an ocean with a handful of dust)
august 4, 2026