we pretended for months that the room wasn't getting colder
that the tea wasn't going sour on the bedside table
that the weight falling off your shoulders like loose soil
wasn't the shape of something leaving
until you were only paper
until you were only the thin architecture of a song
i couldn't stop from fading
do you know what it is to hold a glass of water
and know it is the last glass of water
to watch a person swallow
and realize you are counting down the drops
there are no second chances left in the cupboard
no extra years tucked behind the books on the shelf
there is only the heavy rattle of your breath in the dark
and my fingers tangled in yours
trying to anchor a mountain with a piece of thread
stay
just until the light moves across the floor to the far wall
just until the sun touches the edge of the blanket
you are slipping through my grip like dry sand
and the room is filling up with everything
i never got to say
i am here
holding your wrist
feeling the pulse decide
—lyra moon (somewhere a door is open that no one remembers opening)
august 4, 2026