your keys are a small orchestra on the nightstand
and i am memorizing the layout of your collarbone
before you rewrite the borders of who you belong to
i am trying to be the rain
but the sky is perfectly clear
and my throat is full of salt
there is a third glass on the counter from yesterday
a clean shape that doesn’t include my fingerprints
you tell me the horizon has enough room for everyone
and i nod because i want to be a spacious thing
i want to be the kind of sky you don’t feel trapped under
but my ribs feel like a fence
i watch you put on the jacket that smells of someone else’s smoke
you are so beautiful it makes the air feel borrowed
and i am the dark hallway you walk through to find the exit
the return address on every letter you send from somewhere else
standing in the doorway until the woodwork starts to blur
until i am part of the architecture
until i am just the house
go on then
find the things that still make you shiver
i will be here
a wolf on the wrong side of the glass
watching the pack move through the trees
not calling out
because i already know
the sound my voice makes
when it crosses open ground
and finds nothing
—lyra moon (we only call it freedom when we aren’t the ones left behind)
july 8, 2026