i wanted a life that tasted like elderberries in the early thaw
but the market aisle is a cold and gilded hive
and i am standing in it
holding a paper ghost of the thing i meant to want
trying to remember what wanting felt like
before i learned to buy it
my partner brings me roots heavy with damp black earth
and i look at them like verses i don’t know how to read
my fingers know the flat click of glass
the specific give of a screen under a thumb
we swore we would be different
and we are standing in the same aisle
in the same light
that makes everything look almost like enough
i know the name of the rot
i have read the ledger
i have mapped the eclipse from behind a glowing screen
and written the coordinates in a notebook
i bought for the purpose
of writing things down
what i cannot do is put my hands in the ground
without photographing them first
what i cannot do is let the rain be just rain
without making it mean something
about who i am trying to become
the rosemary browns in the pot
the wolf does not come to the threshold
the deer does not come to the threshold
the woods outside are not weeping
they are just woods
doing what woods do
without us
without needing to be witnessed
we built the altar out of things we bought
and called it sacred
and some of it was
and that is the part i cannot reconcile
and do not try to anymore
—lyra moon (we bought the cage because we liked the color of the bars)
july 8, 2026