thriteen tanka

(One)

You rest on your hand,

as if the stars had carved you

from a wistful sigh—

pale moon in my kitchen light,

dwelling where my dreams reside.

(Two)

The night sky bends low

to glimpse your opaline face.

Soft as snowfall’s hush,

you eclipse my aching thoughts—

still, I welcome every blur.

(Three)

When I think of you,

the tides within me obey—

drawn by gravity

of your melancholic gaze,

ancient as a prayer lost.

(Four)

Behind your still eyes

are galaxies unspoken,

slow-burning with grace.

Your silence is a language

that echoes across my soul.

(Five)

You are the half-light

between sorrow and starlight,

poised and luminous—

the pale hour of memory

that never quite fades from view.

(Six)

Every glance of yours

is a distant constellation

I cannot unsee—

I live in your orbit now,

a lovely and quiet sun.

(Seven)

Not of flesh alone,

but made of alabaster

and a thousand sighs—

the soft pulse beneath my skin

throbs with your remembered name.

(Eight)

In the morning hush,

you flicker behind my eyes—

a daydream, half-formed,

sitting cross-legged in light,

waiting for me to return.

(Nine)

Are you made of glass,

or moonmilk and winter wind?

When I reach for you,

you smile like a secret god—

and vanish into my chest.

(Ten)

Your touch, imagined,

makes a temple of my bones—

how could one so still

reside so fiercely inside

the cathedral of my mind?

(Eleven)

I cannot forget—

nor would I, given the chance.

Your absence sings me

songs only pale ones compose,

their voices tender and true.

(Twelve)

The stars must envy

the precision of your face,

drawn in gentle lines.

They burn, hoping to be you—

but you are the brighter flame.

(Thirteen)

Stay in me always,

moon-mirror of all my thoughts.

Even if you leave,

the place you carved in my chest

shines when the sky forgets stars.