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what floors remember

The silence here is heavy,

walls remember what I cannot forget.

Every corner holds a shadow,

every breath tastes of absence.

I wear the remnants of your warmth,

cloth frayed with traces of touch.

Photographs blur into ghosts,

smiles dissolve into dust.

My chest is a battlefield,

each heartbeat a fractured drum.

I guard the ruins of devotion,

a name etched deep in stone.

Outside, the sky breaks open,

rain falls like unspoken confessions.

I whisper into the storm,

 but only resonance answers back.

Perhaps tomorrow will soften the edges,

perhaps the night will loosen its grip.

But tonight, the room floods,

briny cheeks etching parched tiles.

Reverse Orpheus

The dial turns backward,
hours unspool into thinning threads—
memory dissolves,
yet the face still remains.

What is lost in the sweep of hands
is reverbed in the throat—
time and song entwined,
each reversal leaning into the other.

He looks, and it is himself erased—
her figure steady,
his voice withdrawn into silence,
still remains in her freedom.

Ashes of hours, drifts in song—
both dissolve, yet endure.
The cycle closes, and the dial turns

backward once more.

.

Smoke curls along the alley, 

and in the shifting haze 

a mural dragon stares down, 

its scales chipped, 

yet the gaze still remains— 

a watcher above the street. 

A café door swings open, 

voices spill into the night, 

debating ethics over bitter coffee, 

their words rising, 

then breaking apart 

like ash in the wind. 

Inquiry drifts through the scene: 

a figure pauses, 

studying the cracks in the pavement, 

the way shadows lean 

toward the lamplight, 

as if the city itself 

were asking a question 

that no one answers. 

The walker keeps moving, 

not hurried, not stalled, 

but marked by the silence 

that lingers behind each step. 

Rain streaks the window of the late‑night tram, 

and I catch my reflection— 

half‑lit, half‑blurred, 

a passenger caught in between:

Cinema lights sputter, 

half the bulbs gone, 

yet the pavement glows enough 

to draw shadows forward, 

figures drifting past 

like fragments of a reel 

spliced mid‑story. 

The fairground stalls linger, 

shutters rattling in the wind, 

a lone vendor packs away 

the last cones of cotton candy— 

sweet air dissolving into night, 

traces of laughter 

cling to statued rides. 

Conflict leans into silence: 

not fists, nor shouts, 

but the pause of a step 

held too long at the corner, 

a whole city waiting 

for a stalled walker to move again. 

.

In the meadow of impossible mornings,

the daisies exhale in a trumpet’s blush,

petals fluttering like embarrassed fans as

the air fills with laughter disguised as wind.

Rosehip hiccups, clouds of lavender smoke,

their thorns rattling like spoons in a drawer.

Lilies bow low, releasing secret choruses,

a brass band hidden in their stems.

Children chase the gusts,

catching invisible balloons of fragrance,

while the sky itself wrinkles with mirth,

blue fabric stitched by invisible seams.

And I, wandering through this orchestra,

learn that Beauty isn't always solemn—

it giggles, it sputters, farting flowers fair,

a garden of jokes blooming in full colour.

.

Gaudy Mask

(an abstract)

Above, the awnings creak,
their fabric shouting harshly,
praising the gaudy,
silencing the frail.

The paper mask endures —
it waits, attentive,
for hands to bind its edges,
joining its empty stare.

.

So stain—
as marks that remain longer than intent,
and hesitation pressed into the grain.

Second guess,
doubt’s small fracture widening,
as though the Voice were drowned,
as though we mistook the silence
for absence.

But sustain is not the clean note held—
it is the rough edge,
the falter carried forward,
the scar that steadies the hand.

And then—
awareness returns:
the Voice was never gone,
but braided in the ordinary speech
of those set beside us,
their words a lantern,
their presence the unlooked-for guide.  

So stain becomes sustain:
not erasure,
but the keeping of every mark,
attesting of our having been led
even when we thought ourselves lost.

.

Metal spiral

pressing into cork grain—

the hand does not change,

but the angle sharpens.

Wood fibers split,

a circle becomes ellipse,

birth’s seal loosens

under the slow insistence.

Wine darkens the glass,

a ribbon of liquid

uncoils into air—

intention tilts,

poured sideways into light.

Stay with Me

In tenebrous embrace, your touch ignites,
Feral longing, a savage delight.
Choose: my abyss, or endless night—
Either way, your darkness is my light.

Your breath, a storm that bends my will,
A vow of ruin I cherish still.

.