a garden cannot bloom inside a furnace
seasons spent watering a tree that only drops leaves
on a patient head
drinking the salt from a well that leaves the mouth parched
and calling the thirst a holy thing
nursing the fever caught from standing in another’s frost
just to see if the chill feels like mercy this time
growing tired of sweeping up the stones
carried in willing pockets
a border is drawn across the earth
not because the soil has failed
but because watching someone swallow poison
makes the air unbreathable
a line of salt laid down
to step back into the cool night
knowing one is only ever the bandage
never the hand reached for
when the pain finally stops
the tragedy is not that a heart starves for a phantom
it is sitting before a feast prepared by devoted hands
and weeping for the empty plate
on the other side of the room
believing that hunger is the only true measure of devotion
a hunger that would tear open ribs to satisfy
only to watch the marrow used
to paint a ghost upon the wall
how strange to build a sanctuary out of soft silk
only to watch a tired soul crawl back
into a cage with an open latch
while someone stands outside in the rain
holding the key
—lyra moon (a refuge cannot save someone who has learned to love the weight of the latch)
august 10, 2026