I did not lie beneath the tree; the wooden planks of the deck refused me—splinters, debris, the endless shedding. At night, lemons fell like intrusion, and the heart forgot its safety.
Moths enter sealed rooms, die against the light; you wrapped one in paper, fed it as it faded.
You said meaning lives in all things—tears, wings, numbers.
Even now, something green breaks through stone, and still, it feels alive.