Echoes of a Fragile Geometry

We were the crooked edges of a map,

folded too many times to remember even the first crease.

The road ahead was a language neither of us could pronounce,

syllables spilling like rain from a frayed umbrella.

In the corner of the room, a moth beats itself

against the idea of light.

I imagine it as an architect

redrawing the blueprint of escape.

You said once, “Everything wants to belong.”

And I thought of roots clawing through asphalt,

ivy climbing walls like a thief

who has forgotten what to steal.

Between us, there were always interruptions—

a tide, a shadow, the click of a lock turning itself inward.

We carried silence like a shared name,

worn smooth by forgetting.

Now, your absence blooms in reverse:

a flower folding itself back into the seed.

I keep looking for the scent of something real,

but the air is a circle without a center.

The sky tonight is a thin sheet of wax paper,

moonlight leaking through its creases.

If I hold it up to the light,

will it show me the blueprint you left behind?

Or will it only reveal the shadow

of a moth, still waiting to belong?