i have spent a life with glue on my fingers
trying to mend the shattered edge of morning
trying to fit the spilled light back into the jar
believing the world was a machine that needed my hands
believing every tear in the fabric was a call to my name
i thought if i held hard enough the cup would not fall
i thought if i loved enough the breath would not leave
i thought repair was the only true worship
the only way to prove i was worthy of staying
and then the autumn came softly
and the leaves simply slipped from the branch that carried them
they fell into the dark earth like gifts
unbroken and quiet and complete
it is not a failure that the wood rots into moss
it is not a mistake that the bird leaves the nest cold
the ache in the chest is not a sign of ruin
it is just the weight of love
with nowhere left to go
death comes like a mother in the quiet room
she does not come to punish the thread
she comes to gather the weave
she comes to take the tired hands out of the work
we were never shattered
we were only temporary
we were only light passing through a glass
that was always meant to crack
look at your hands now
empty and trembling in the dark
they do not need to fix the night
they only need to feel it
closing softly over everything you ever loved
—lyra moon (the hands that finally rest are not empty, they are open)
august 9, 2026