Caught in the Lucid Hour

six nights, six blooms, six poems

Where I’d Like to Be Buried

In every leaf—that trembles—In every drop—of dew—

No stone—no marker tall—

Just this green—growing sprawl

---

Bridal Kiss

Pure as frost, fiery as sin,

Velvet lips sear with embered skin.

She bends to kiss the night’s cold breath,

A bloom of love, a bloom of death.

In darkness, the bride waits,

her vow begins—

the under world calls

where light thins.

---

Heart of the Forest

Afloat, pulsing, red—

a secret they promise not to spread:

Born of neither light nor name,

the specter comes alive to claim.

And those who gaze upon its grace,

shall find no solace in any place.

For in this heart, the ancient forest

wakes,

and every soul it touches,

takes.

---

Beneath Midnight Waters

A flicker of silence,  

slipping like a whisper between the teeth  

of orchids, their scales  

peeling moonlight in the hush  

of blue glass.

A keeper of a shrine once told me:  

we bury our gods in bowls,  

and here, beneath the waters,  

they swim, petals & fins,  

throats full of secrets.

I watch them bloom.  

A mouth opens, like an apology,  

but the apology never comes—  

only light, only this  

brief resurrection  

where they turn, iridescent & fragile  

as prayers, their bodies  

bent like reeds  

around an invisible current.

They forget  

their names,  

& I forget the sound  

of mine.

So we are here,  

among reflections,  

each ripple a gesture of mercy  

I can’t understand.

But I see them still,  

the orchids,  

their mouths pink & wild,  

swimming circles  

beneath midnight waters—  

bright, unbroken  

& reaching for the edge  

of something they’ve never seen.

---

Sputnik Sweetheart

A sigh

unspoken,

where

s t a r s

lie

broken.

---

One Breath

What is the love language of touch

if not the memory of falling?

Our petals—moonlit pages of an unwritten promise:

When the wind comes, & it will come,

we'll carry each other's ghosts,

we’ll sway, shiver, not as two,

but as one breath, as

one trembling vein.

Bound not by choice, but

by the gossamer thread of

Fate, spun from our own silk.

We wait, as flowers do,

leaning on each other’s

last breath.

---