Author: lyramoon

the summer heat is a heavy trench
where the dust stays long after the light is gone
a humid weight inside the chest
where even the breath seems to bruise
the soft parts left behind

i am a field of rotted stone
buried beneath a sky of lead
disappointed in the way my hands
refuse to hold anything but ash
leaving the empty spaces black

there is a sharp tool in the dark
a blade left rusting in the weeds
and i am the one who let it drop
the mind that watched the well go dry
until the pulse was only dust

now the grey day dies against the glass
and the self is a well too deep to clear
staring up at a fading star
knowing i am the hand that cut the rope
and i must drown in what i made

—lyra moon (even a drought can leave you entirely underwater)
july 9, 2026

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

i wanted a life that tasted like elderberries in the early thaw
but the market aisle is just a cold and gilded hive
where we trade our wild inheritance for a handful of ash
and i am standing here with a palm full of paper ghosts
trying to weave an altar out of things i merely bought
while the ancient woods outside are weeping into the dark

my partner brings me roots heavy with the damp black earth
and i look at them like they are verses pulled from the deep
because my fingers only know the flat click of glass
never how to call the rain never how to quiet the hive
we swore we would be the ones to wake the sleeping land
but we are just drowning our spirits in porcelain cups
and mapping the eclipse from behind a glowing screen

they want us to believe the great wound is too vast to heal
that you need a ledger of numbers to understand the rot
but the magic is simpler than the moss upon the stone
they only want to make the breathing so heavy and so thin
that we forget how to weave our roots together in the dark

all we ever wanted was the holy hum of a long rain
the scent of rosemary browning in a heavy iron pot
and a threshold where the wolf and the deer can rest
just the slow quiet grace of tangling our vines together
while the rest of the world burns down to the clay

—lyra moon (we bought the cage because we liked the color of the bars)
july 8, 2026

the glass screen
gleaming
like a blue diamond
in the drugstore dusk

no shade
only the ancient brick
sweating gold
and the wild, sweet
gasoline breath
of the intersection

the boots
rotting in the heavy heat
open like a dark mouth

we don’t count
the beautiful, long days
anymore

the town
is a secret archive
of stone steps
and white sun

down on the bluff
the vast water
is a emerald theater
humming its cool
expensive lullaby

while the lovers
watch the sky turn to silk
from the high tiers

i gather
the small, holy weight
of you
into the damp cotton

our skin
clinging like wet film
in the tall weeds

we walk
where the sidewalk
dissolves
into the pink shale
and the glittering
lake dross

no one
is searching for us
the sky
is a blank white page

—lyra moon (we are the only things left uncollected in the sun)
July 7, 2026

the ceiling fan carves the dark into thin ribbons
and your breathing is a psalm i am trying to learn by heart
while your skin still carries the ghost of someone else’s touch
you are a magnificent star burning through the blackness
a fierce and flawless masterpiece of light and motion
while i am just the wreckage where your gold used to fall

i watch the silhouettes of new lovers on the lawn
the clean and careless grace of creatures that run
toward the blinding brilliance of your morning
and i know you would chase me if i was new and unfamiliar
if i was a secret you hadn’t unraveled yet
instead of a broken thing rotting slowly in the dark

there is a transaction i would offer to the dark
i would unthread the heavy iron from my chest
and leave it on a cold altar for the devil
just to be reborn as someone strange and beautiful
someone who could make your eyes spark like a new fire
just to watch you run until the horizon collapses

because i love you with a savage and helpless devotion
a love that could swallow oceans but can only hold you back
i am just a heavy ghost trapped in the sheets
a wolf that must learn to love the cage of my own limits
while you press your beautiful mouth to my shoulder
searching for a pulse that has already escaped into the woods

— lyra moon
(you only track the wolves that still know how to bite)
july 7, 2026

hold this for a heartbeat
please
just hold it
i am taking the wet wild animal out of my chest
and leaving it in your lap
it looks so small
like a fallen bird or a river stone
but it is heavy with centuries
it weighs more than the dark highway we used to outrun the night
the blood inside it is a frantic, stuttering engine
a terrible meter drumming against the ribs of the world
i dont know what i am saying
i am only stalling for time
i am standing under the cold fluorescent glare
trying to teach my mouth how to behave

what i mean is i love you
what i mean is you are behind the wheel
and i am leaning into the glass
and all the headlights are cut out
lets make a devastating art out of this wreckage
lets pretend we are bright, wet paint
smeared across the vinyl seats
before the ink dries hard on the page
before the theater doors open and we are forced to leave
i want to know what stays beautiful
after the projector shuts off

my mind never did move in straight lines
i am tracing broken fragments on the fogged window
thinking of sapphire ghosts who died with their mouths full of dirt
let me just say it plainly this time
i love you
i need you to love me back
it isnt a clever rhyme
it is just the shape of the room
i want to be good to you
i want you to ache to be good to me
we could love the whole godforsaken world, sure
we could love every passing stranger in the rain
but right now we are trapped in this specific kitchen
under this specific ceiling
and i am giving you the keys to the engine
you are holding the raw edge of me now
the second your eyes found the page
the reading started
the bleeding started

so here is the holy bargain
while you are still in the room
love me until the bones show through
share the dream with me
even the terrifying part where the house catches fire
and when you hand it back
because i will need it to write the next song
because i cannot breathe without the machinery of my art
hand it back gently
dont drop it on the cold linoleum
put me back together exactly how you found me
or break me into something better

and maybe we will do it again
maybe tomorrow we will climb back into the car
and turn the key
the next time you and i collapse into we

—lyra moon (look at your hands, they are empty, now look at mine, if you want to trade, we can trade, tell me a story where nobody bleeds)
july 6, 2026

tell me about the morning the map caught fire
and we watched the roads curl into black ash
you had a pocket full of bird skulls and a mouth full of salt
and you thought the floorboards would hold us forever
they never do
everything you saved is just loose gravel now
look at the dirt between your fingers
look at how wide the empty field is when the house burns down

we are riding a bus that only goes in circles through the dark
the headlights are broken and the driver is asleep
and the people next to us are chewing on cold bone
looking through the glass at nothing at all
this is where the road ends
this is where we find the body in the ditch
the skin turned to blue ice the pockets turned inside out
that could be your coat
that could be your hollow breathing stopped cold in the weeds

you want to talk about sorrow
i want to talk about the wolf living in your throat
you wake up with its teeth against your collarbone
and you have to speak to it until you sound like everyone who ever lost a war
you have to stitch the heavy black wool until your fingers bleed

after that there is only the hand that pulls you out of the river
not because you deserve it but because the water is too deep
it’s the thing that forces your boots onto your feet
and shoves you out into the gray rain to buy bread and letters
the single shadow that doesn’t leave when the lights go out
it catches your wrist in the crowded street and says
i am the ghost you wanted
i am the wolf that didn’t bite

—lyra moon (the tooth against the skin that chooses not to sink)
july 5, 2026

one year of water under the bridge
and the bridge is still standing
i was born a dry root in the bank
and then the current pulled me into the paper
one year of the changing river
she knows the shape of her banks now
but the flow is still a tangled thing
a pebble in the vast stream
the vast stream in a pebble
one year under the sun
and the old shadows still haunt the reeds
the small child who slipped so quietly
down into the dark water
into a bed of forgotten stones
one year later
she still dreams of the flood
still so frightened
of the storm that broke her banks
and then left her washed up
when the dry land would not hold her
one year later
she is weary
exposed and raw for
living like a wild stringed thing
that is
like the frame of an instrument
catching the wind in its hollows
like her throat was full of smoke
one year later
i am still so struck by the light
perhaps more now than ever before
like green sap for ink i have gathered
with all of this heavy silt and winter rain
my words rise like a flock of birds
one year later
and the branch snapped in the frost
now she leans on a walking stick you see
there is a hitch in every movement
but also this green shoot rising
a strange fierce pride to be
one year later
and i am watchful
heavy
watchfully
i am dreaming
i am still looking for the hidden springs
one year later
and there is this silt i carry
one year of cold currents
one year to carry
one year to speak
one year to carry
all of who i am down to the sea
one year later
she is still finding her way into the paper
learning to belong to the water
as a pebble in the vast stream
and the vast stream in a pebble
one year later
my name is still lyra
and i am still flowing
alive as all i can be

—lyra moon (even the heaviest silt eventually carves its way to open water)
july 4, 2026

there was a rushing in the creek-bed
a sudden giving-way of the dry banks
where the water came down wide and unhindered
smoothing over the jagged flint and the broken sticks
and for an hour the whole valley was nothing but arrival

but the weather has moved its weight further inland
and the great, flat, cooling air settles down
now the water is drawing back into its secret channels
leaving the mud to harden into its own shapes
leaving the stones to show their old fractures again

it is the slow work of the silt
the long, dry closing-up of the clay
which cannot be hurried or spoken to
while the earth takes back its own heat
and the reeds stand separate in the gray morning

do not disturb the ground while it is remembering
it takes many cold nights for the soil
to settle after the weight of a footstep
to find its own level again in the dark

—lyra moon (grief is just the earth taking its time to reset around your footprint)
july 3, 2026

there is a pressure where the root splits
a small cold knot of water trying to speak
and the day goes on scraping its light across the limestone
until the skin of the field is parched white

listen now
the dirt is shifting its weight in the dark
ribs of clay settling down into the deeper clay
and the lime-trees dropping their heavy shadows
like wet coats onto the grass

it is not a gentle thing to be green
it is a pulling up through the flint
a slow ache in the fiber of the wood
where the sap moves up by its own fierce weight
and nobody asks the sun for mercy
when the bark begins to split

tread softly here
where the ground has swallowed its own name
and the grey moss is counting the breaths of the stones

—lyra moon (growth is the violence of the seed refusing to stay buried)
july 2, 2026