the summer heat is a heavy trench
where the dust stays long after the light is gone
a humid weight inside the chest
where even the breath seems to bruise
the soft parts left behind
the ceiling at two in the afternoon
does not change
this is the thing nobody tells you
how much of it is just the ceiling
and the specific way the light moves across it
and then stops moving
and the room holds that stillness
like a verdict
there is a tool left somewhere in the house
i know the shape of it without looking
the mind catalogs these things
without being asked
without stopping
the grey day presses against the glass
and the glass holds
and the body holds
and the holding is the whole of it
the entire task
to simply remain inside the weight
without putting it down
i know the hand that cut the rope
i have been watching it all summer
opening and closing
opening and closing
as if it is still deciding
—lyra moon (even a drought can leave you entirely underwater)
july 9, 2026