Wax Ghost
The face is a quiet ruin,
melted down to its hush.
Light bleeds through the cracks,
a pale, watching eye—
cold as the rind of the moon.
Windborne
The sky peels back—
a silver seam, a breath unstitched.
Hair like torn silk, unraveling,
pulled into the hollow mouth of the wind.
The body lingers,
but the self has already left.