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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his voice withdrawn into silence,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.

.

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.

.

The Corkscrew of Existence

In the cellar,
green‑glass vessels lean

           against one another,
   their shoulders dust‑padded,
        throats sealed tight.

Some wait decades,
stoppered against the tremor of hands
that might one day twist them open.

Others burst early,
foam rushing into the air
as if silence itself were unbearable.

Life, too, is a rack of bottles—
some forgotten in the corner,
                labels blurred,
contents thickening into memory.

Others are restless,
pressing against their corks,
                       uncontainable,
a fizz that refuses to be archived.

And we—
we are the corkscrews,
spiralling into the grain of our own days,
levering against the stubborn seal,
wondering whether release
                      is celebration,
or simply another form of spilling.

.

Unstopped

bottle—
pressed throat,
cork clenched.

inside: fizz,
or nothing.

stopper holds,
stopper fails.

either way—
the glass remembers
pressure.

.

I begin with ~~certainty~~  

no—only the tremor of a line,  

a draft that refuses to settle.  

The page offers ~~silence~~  

but I write into its margins,  

naming what cannot be named.  

You read the ~~crossed-out~~ words  

as if they were confessions,  

but they are only scaffolds,  

a way of showing the wound  

without pointing to it.  

I keep ~~erasing~~,  

not to hide,  

but to let you see  

the ghost of what was almost said.  

And when you arrive at the end,  

you will find nothing resolved—  

only the trace of our dialogue,  

a ledger of ~~mistakes~~  

that were never mistakes at all.  

weapons of mass distraction

Screens glow like altars.
We kneel, thumbs twitching
prayers to gods of noise.

The loudest silence is
the one we scroll past.

Billboards bloom
like invasive flowers,
their petals of neon
masking the stars.

We are armed not with rifles,
but with endless feeds,
notifications detonating
in the pocket. The war is
not for land, but for attention.

Somewhere, a child waits for
a story that is not interrupted
by a ringtone.

The weapon is simple:
keep you from yourself.

.

"Fruit of the Branch"

Fruit of the branch
is how the soil remembers
the abundance of heart—
roots drinking deep
from hidden covenant,
sap rising like prayer
through the marrow of wood.

Each season bears witness:
figs swelling in their time,
olives pressed for oil,
grapes gathered into silence
before the feast.

The ground does not forget.
It holds the imprint
of every rain,
every hand that tended,
every tear bottled
and poured back as growth.

So the harvest speaks—
not in ledgered sums,
but in sweetness,
in bread and wine,
in the quiet testimony
of branches that endured
the long night
and still bore fruit.

.