Moonphase

The moon, with its unblemished predator eyes, hunts for the human heart.

I steal four drifting poems—

Your moonlit body floats in through the perfumed window of the sky.

I.

Jazz of endless desire plays at the pinnacle of the air.

The world sways, unravels itself,

Bubbles rise, hover, burst.

The skeleton of a dream trembles—wants more. Always more.

A dulled knife whispers the secret of birth.

Beside it—today’s bread,

And the sharp geometry of tomorrow’s lilac scent.

II.

If you ask me who I am, I’ll say—I’m divided.

You’ll need to excavate four or five versions of me from within.

Let six or seven others sprint across eight- or nine-lane highways.

Then: cities, trees, parks, expressways, back alleys, subways—collapse into their own folds.

So sit still. Don’t say your name.

Let the game of touch begin.

III.

This story has no pause. No edge.

The cradle rocks, yet stays still.

The nectar of restraint distills through pickles and touch.

Trembling lips lean toward the sweetness of a kiss.

When joy becomes too real, it startles—meets the face of nightmare.

Lack remakes us. Presence grows as red as a fingertip pressed too long.

Silent flowers bloom in parallel with ache.

Before the final chapter:

Did the girl ever find her translation?

Or was she lost inside the words?

Last Season

We will rest. Or sleep. Or stay wide awake.

Sweet nicotine mist rises. The earth folds into embrace.

God waits—like a musk deer in the shadows.

A wild bird weaves an endless fairy tale into the spotless sunset.

Silence melts—into a voiceless pen, or maybe a keyboard. Either works.

A prism shatters the wall of language, letters rain down—

“No book is holy enough

Without that scented, sensual touch.”

~~~

Not in the News

The dog didn’t die.

I mean— not really.

It just ran out of name—

the kind people never bother to remember.

And me?

I left, throat full of suitcases,

left my sandals under the bed

as if that would be the thing to bring me back.

Now the room breathes without me.

The curtains blink slowly,

like they’ve lost all curiosity

about the world outside.

The new flat smells of paint and indifference.

I water the plastic plant.

It stays quiet—

a good boy.

Most important update:

Sisyphus is on LinkedIn now.

Listed resilience as a skill.

HR clapped.

His rock got a permanent post.

I used to think death was a door.

Now I see—

it’s a waiting room.

Soft music.

Free biscuits.

The dead don’t haunt—

they audit.

And I keep failing

the exam for the room I once got offered full-time

but forgot to show up for.

So, what I was saying is—

love doesn’t make headlines

until the blood congeals.

Till then,

it’s just a shivering pup under a car,

nameless,

not yet newsworthy.