there is an hour when the water stops its moving
and holds the last pink edge of what was day
the dark comes in like water rising through the grass
until the shore is just a sound of small waves lapping
and every face is taken back into the air
no skin to mark the distance no outline left to name
in this deep shade we are reduced to voice alone
the word you speak arrives without a body attached
just breath moving out across the darkened rocks
the soft drift of eyebrows the fleeting turn of mouth
the ghost of a gesture that tells what the tongue denies
that faint trace hovering between our voice and ear
is all the missed expression we cannot read by night
the very thing that daytime fills
with bias and retreat
when sight obscures the person
behind the skin and eyes
—lyra moon (we see clearest the moment we can no longer see)
august 25, 2026