you knew my name before i did
not the sound of it
the weight of it
you set a cup beside me and let it warm
until my hands stopped shaking around the rim
in your kitchen the onions were sweating in their skins
the radio muttered through a weather report
and you said stay as if you were naming a measurement
i came to you full of borrowed rooms
with my pockets turned inside out
with old apologies still folded in the cuffs
you looked at me the way a locksmith looks at a difficult latch
not with mercy
with patience and a private kind of faith
for a while i believed that was the same thing
you taught me how to sit at my own table
how to answer when my own voice called from the hallway
how to cut fruit without flinching at the sweetness
and when the change began
it was small enough to miss
the morning i stopped reaching for your face
the day my reflection held still long enough to be met
you praised the way i was becoming
like praise could keep a person present
like naming a fire could prevent the ash
then came the packing
the folded dish towel
the keys placed where i would find them
the silence you set down with care between us
after you left
i learned the room could still be lived in
the spoon could still circle the mug
the beans could still soften in the pot
my clothes could still dry on the line
without your hands moving through the air beside me
and the first time i laughed like myself
i had to put the plate down to make room for it
because it came up sudden and startled and bright
like a match struck in a room that had forgotten its own heat
i wanted to be furious
i wanted to make your leaving ugly enough to match it
but even then the laughter came back
small and stunned and real
like a bruise turning the color of dusk
i wish you had stayed long enough to hear it
i wish you had not become the door closing at the very edge of the song
still i would be lying if i said i did not sing
—lyra moon (the last strawberries on the counter went soft before i could share them)
october 17, 2026