A moth in its woven cocoon-
perfection only ever implied.
Try to understand me,
or the way I dream:
In shades of white and grey,
where nothing is named,
but everything is felt.
I trace the rings in lace,
soft patterns like half-kept confessions;
my fingers drift,
then catch-
on rusted chains,
pulled too tight,
around a truth
we almost shared,
or I imagined alone.
A different ocean calls me.
I fall under-
quick as a secret swallowed whole.
No foothold holds,
only jagged currents,
only words that break apart
before they reach the surface.
A stanza of sorrow-
a bird unraveled,
feathers stripped to thread,
woven into fragile plumes,
as if longing alone
could teach them flight.
And still-
somewhere beneath it all,
something unnamed
keeps beating its wings.