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
and i am lying here cataloguing the evidence
the way a detective does
when they already know the answer
and are only building the file
i watch the silhouettes of new lovers on the lawn
the clean and careless grace of creatures that run
toward whatever light is brightest at the time
i know that posture
i had it once
before i learned the specific weight
of being someone’s place to land
i would not undo it
that is the thing i cannot explain to anyone
i would not go back to before i knew
the exact coordinates of your collarbone in the dark
the particular way you say my name
when you have forgotten to be careful with it
i know what i am in this
i have always known
the body that stays
the light that doesn’t have to
the wolf who gave up her teeth
one by one
and called it love
and it was love
and that is the part that doesn’t resolve
and i have stopped waiting for it to
you press your mouth to my shoulder
and i feel the psalm leave my body
and i let it go
because keeping it
was never really an option
and i knew that
from the first night
i started learning your breathing by heart
—lyra moon (you only track the wolves that still know how to bite)
july 8, 2026