Looking with Cely
through the hush of violet pines,
moonlight drips like silver ink
across the pages of our palms;
every breath she takes
spells a quiet country I can live in.
Harmonica wind remembers
all the roads we never drove—
we just float them now,
two shadows stitched by starlight,
trading tomorrow for a longer tonight.
I hear her name in river stones;
they circle, soft and round,
until the world forgets to turn—
and still we’re looking,
still we’re looking,
Cely and I,
until the sky itself exhales
and folds us gently into dawn.