As Moonlight Bleeds

May 10, 2:44 a.m.

The moon hangs heavy,
a bruised peach torn against the void—
I catch its falling juice in poems
and taste the night, copper-sweet.

Cabin Silence

Feb 14, 1:07 a.m.

There are hours when even the rafters breathe. A log shifts in the firebox and the spark speaks a syllable I almost understand.

The Clockmaker's Heart

Apr 27, 3:12 a.m.

He kept gears where others kept memories. Each tick was a confession he was too careful to speak aloud.

Streetlight Confession

Mar 5, 12:38 a.m.

A lone bulb buzzes like a tired wasp, spilling sodium light onto wet asphalt. I'm the only pedestrian.