Pale Witness

You silver archivist,

keeper of borrowed light—

I write to you from the tilted world,

where windows hum and hearts

unravel quietly between

the ceiling fan’s rotations.

You’ve seen me, haven’t you?

pacing the edge of sleep,

hands smelling of graphite and rain,

lips rehearsing apologies

to no one in particular.

You, pale witness,

collect my shadows like debts.

Every night you wear a different wound—

a bitten crescent,

a bruised pearl,

a hollow pit dug from shadow—

pretending to be serene.

I envy your composure,

how you vanish and return

without ever explaining your absence.

Do you remember the promise I made—

to tame tongue and pen,

speaking only when spoken to?

I’ve broken it.

My light leaks through the blinds,

feral and uninvited.

I am all confession now,

a tide collapsing against your pull.

You, patient listener,

you ghost of gravity,

you know how love rearranges the dark—

how silence grows teeth,

how longing folds itself

into constellations that never existed.

If you answer,

do it in waves,

or in the slow bruising of morning.

I’ll understand.

I’ve learned your language—

the ache of a frigid fire,

the gleam that forgives

but never forgets,

the routine rebellion of

shapeshifting

and dancing

in a vengeful sky.