Embermoon

came from nowhere, writing toward somewhere

[electric-earth7]

taste of grace

there's an intrigue that comes with unknowing

a guilt that comes with forgiveness

a blessed opportunity for those that close their eyes and taste a glimpse of starlight

pondering minds & quaking hearts

a last-stitch effort amongst men

why now?

why this moment --- why this taste of grace?

i bow before the night and she twinkles back --- a crescent moon of mystery, a mere nod to everlasting.

her sleight of hand sends spirals of stars cascading

falling fervently

to the closed eyes

of dreamers

[electric-earth7]

A Beautiful Goodbye (after impact)

Trying to capsize the underbelly

of a beast too great for holding.

Trying to grit the teeth

of a mammoth creature—

dark and twisting,

writhing with disgust.

Reaching for abandon

beneath a cascading firefall of resentment.

The heat sings

even as I let go.

Clarity befalls consensual contrast—

between fanfare

and flitting freedom.

The drastic conclusion of gravity

once considered

weightlessness.

I fall—

hard,

to the rocky soil.

And still—

I survive.

Impactful memories,

gathered like bruises blooming.

A beautiful goodbye.

Not painless.

Not perfect.

But mine.

[kyrieeleeison]

[fuzzyghost]

[detailedart]

Mars, Jupiter, Venus, Saturn, 25.01.25, by Manusia dan Langit (composite picture of the alignment also called “planet parade”)

[fairytaleprincessart]

[electric-earth7]

champagne daydreams

sometimes silence

sometimes sound

racing heartbeat

mourning crowd

eyes cast downward—a fleeting chance.

cascading stars

a backward glance

light of amber

twinkling skies

champagne daydreams

your inner thighs

[fairytaleprincessart]

[electric-earth7]

cutting the silence

The knife that broke me was dull and rusted.

Reflecting glints of hatred into weary, 

watchful eyes that could no longer see.

Strength in steel, tugging at tender rind—

tainting fruitful innocence 

with the clotting sensation of revulsion, 

and scraping sin into sorrowful solitude. 

The knife that broke me was small and shining. 

Unassuming and Unprovoked. 

A vessel of verity in a hoarded sea of swarming wasps.  

A meek messenger from my imploring mind. 

A way out of the cacophony of chaos of my creation.

A way to breathe without breaking.

The knife that broke me was lost. 

Somewhere in between realization and recognition. 

Mingling among risky business and fear. 

Waiting within the walls of wild wood and thickened river stone, 

cemented firmly into standing, 

hungry for another sanguineous saltation. 

The knife that broke me is gone.

Willed out of sight by a compelling conversation. 

A modulated metamorphosis. 

Encapsulated energy and cannibalistic chemistry,

a pleading prayer with blue eyes and smoke-filled fears.  

The knife that broke me is gone. 

[symptomofloves]

i <3 my balcony

[electric-earth7]

this is why

I can’t remember the last time something this energetic lived inside of me. 

The pull toward the unknown is squirming, hot-footed, and frantic. 

I long for salt in my curling hair and balmy, fragrant breezes, whispering forgotten secrets into opened ears—butterfly weed and sea holly beckoning, marking landscapes by X on faded maps like hidden treasure.

I can almost taste the humidity, beading droplets of vitality, pressing into life's essence and reminding me that this is why.

why pain embodies both birth and collapse. 

why the sensation of a summer storm leaves you feeling breathless.

why time eats with reckless abandon and insatiable appetite—

because nothing this appealing is allowed to last. 

But I don’t need it to. Not for very long.

Just a moment. 

Just a glimpse.

Just an inhale—and an exhalation of self. 

[polkadotmotmot]

Tomona Matsukawa - Tonight, was I really with someone?, 2025 - Oil on canvas

[nixscriptum]

To write is to pluck at your own heart like petals—half in love with the ache, half in awe of the bloom. ( ❀ ✍︎︎ )

[electric-earth7]

technicolor tragedy

The version of me that no one sees walks barefoot through my grief. 

She keeps a candle burning in a jar I never open—speaking in symbols, in almosts, in dreams delicately disposed of.

She lingers beneath the layers of lace and ruin.

Quietly proclaiming her indecency, torpidly pacing the harrowed hallways of curled smoke and dreaming mirrors.

“A fallen star, a dying rose,” her chambers echo, chanting.

“A stolen mind where no one goes” 

She gazes into the throat of the world, sorrow without teeth—only silence. 

Inhalation turned upheaval, her memories faded with the swiftness of a flying arrow in the balmy, shadowed evenings of June.

She latched onto the remaining remembrances. 

When the air was perfumed with the scent of dirt and pink lemonade, gummy worms, and the laughter of youth.

Dandelions and dust bunnies, hot chocolate and prayer—a broken wish landed somewhere between shooting stars and the ears of God. 

She persists, though barely— the version of me that no one sees.

Repose in ultraviolet rays. Technicolor tragedy. 

Fading from my future, a prompt of my past.

[detailsofpaintings]

Ludolf Backhuysen, A Coastal Landscape (detail)

1705

[amilkyway]

fireflies lighting up a rural Pennsylvania field at dusk

[electric-earth7]

now, I remember

I sensed it was wrong when I fell to the ground.

I dropped hard and fast, and the landing was far away–– somewhere I couldn’t see.

I admitted to myself that I was shrinking, slipping, sliding away into darkness uninhibited by the me’s of the past.

“But I love him,” I exclaimed to the weeping stars as their lights went out.

“He saved me,” I call to the shaking sun, hidden behind clouds of dejection.

“I didn’t leave you behind,” I mourn to the miserable moon, once my only friend.

But I had.

I’d forgotten the nights of pink sparkly nail polish, twinkling under 3 am candles while tendrils of patchouli incense caressed my cheek.

I’d forgotten the music--strings of nickel and silk, pirouetting through the emptiness in my mind. Leaving partial imprints upon a brain sick with memory.

I’d forgotten the love. The kind that swallows you whole and then gently spits you out into a garden of wildflowers--soft honeysuckle and prayer-formed peonies dotting the horizon as you fall, cautiously collecting and tending to open wounds.

I’d forgotten--but now, in the encapsulating heat and frightened fondness, I can remember.

Make room for the opening of broken windows. Make room for the inferno of the soul.

I’d forgotten. But now, I remember.