Veinverse

We are the ones who carve constellations

into the backs of receipts, napkins,

the blank margins of borrowed time—

our pens, splinters pulled from the ribs of old oaks,

drip with the sap of unsung hymns.

Here, the page is not paper but a mirror,

cracked where our breath fogs its surface,

where we scribble the grammar of grief

and the calculus of crow’s feet

into something that almost looks like light.

Some nights, we are archaeologists

digging for the fossils of feelings—

a lover’s sigh trapped in amber,

the ghost of a childhood doorframe,

a war cry muffled by a moth’s wing.

We stitch words into the quiet like sutures,

seamstress-hands trembling, threadbare but relentless,

until every comma is a caught tear,

every period a stone dropped into the well of what if.

You’ll find us in the corners of coffee shops,

nursing lukewarm metaphors,

or at midnight desks, bargaining with the moon

to spare just one more syllable—

our veins humming with the static of half-born truths.

We do not write to be heard.

We write to turn the chaos of breath

into a compass.

To prove that even the quietest pulse

can split a horizon.

So when you read us, do not look for answers.

Look for the smudges where our fingers lingered,

the scars ink left on the paper’s skin,

the way our silence, when held to the light,

becomes a prism.

Ending Note:

This poem will haunt you in the pause between heartbeats.

(You’re welcome.)

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