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7/18/2026
It isn’t hard to know
the desert.
Though the breath it leaves behind
burns and reshapes
its soul,
though it keeps
mirages beneath its navel,
all it asks
is a footstep upon its chest.
It isn’t hard to know
the rain.
Though she screams,
shattering herself
against every direction,
though her bleeding drops
bruise the summer,
all she asks
is an open window,
a waiting hand,
a touch.
It isn’t hard to know
a universe.
All it asks
is closed eyes,
and a silence
at its centre.
Then,
how was it
that you couldn’t
read
this fragile line
breathing
through emptiness?
Was it really
that difficult?