i think about the notebook outlasting the wrist
how a line of ink might sit quiet in a drawer
long after the house is sold to strangers
it's a stubborn kind of hope
this belief that a few careful lines
could adjust the slant of light in the morning
we want so badly to push past the garden gate
past the gray edge where the known world ends
we look for some enormous thing in the dark
the way the shadow of an ordinary chair against the wall
stretches out until it looks like a ribcage or a wing
we're a small sound inside a locked room
trying to remember what sky feels like
sometimes the floorboards settle in the middle of the night
a deep sound in the wood that arrives like a voice
telling us to be larger than our clothes
and i think that's the whole instruction
be larger than your clothes
let the seams go
if i'm part of the draft moving under the kitchen door
then so is everything i meant to say
and didn't
and we're both still up past the hour of sleeping
watching the chair throw its shadow on the wall
waiting to see which it'll choose
the ribcage or the wing
—lyra moon (the archivists catalogued the notebook under the previous owner's name and didn't ask about the wrist)
june 22, 2026