THE CLOSET MYSTIC

nightskeye

July 29th, 2025

You caught me staring

lost in your eyes—

you asked me what I was doing.

“Stargazing”—

it was all I could muster.

It’s like you plucked the stars from the heavens,

and put them in your eyes:

what is this magic you do?

You are the night sky.

It’s like you stole the Sun,

and put it in your heart:

what is this magic of yours?

Blazing. You bring me to life.

It’s like you’re the universe,

You draw me into orbit—

What a wonderful dance this is.

You tell me,

“I want to see the world”—

but I already do.

We could travel the globe,

There’s nothing worth seeing

if it’s not with you.

Stargazing,

one of our favorite pastimes.

But honey, that night sky

has nothing

on your eyes.

Brilliant. You bring me alive.
i bloom

July 28th, 2025

this flower bloomed

in the shittiest of pastures

but this flower bloomed

yeah, this flower bloomed.

this flower bloomed

by the family tree

obscuring the Sun

leaving near none

for that flower,

that flower, me—

but this flower bloomed.

yeah, this flower bloomed.

this flower bloomed,

home to a caterpillar,

its hammock cocoon—

and this flower bloomed,

yeah,

that butterfly flew.
July 24th, 2025

nonchalance:

a prison.

nonchalance:

the schism,

between passion

& living.

chalance,

an affirmation:

you have a heart,

it’s beating.
Creation of Adam

July 19th, 2025

so so close

but worlds away

like Adam’s outstretched finger,

i know not the warmth of your touch.

that tragic scene

longing for fusion:

to be created

is to be separate.

who am i to blame?

how can i be both

wounded youth

and wise adult?

it makes you uncomfortable

is it your fault, is it not

i do not know.

I’m reminded of that old fear:

who would i be

if i were born

in Nazi Germany?

i lower my pointed finger.

raised in the new world,

you in the old.

shock.

denial.

anger.

acceptance.

i found that forgiving you…

it was like accepting a loss,

the grief final.

these roots go so deep

but that bramble cuffs you

to that rock-like dirt.

I’m done breaking my back

to pull you free.

I now walk away

and leave you be.

I love you —

But ma,

I need to be me
July 16th, 2025

Once I met you,

I never stopped falling.

Getting to love you?

My one highest calling.

This heart was made to love,

these eyes

for adoration.

Loving you

is discovering purpose:

in all truth,

liberation.

The lovemaking is so good,

it is dangerous.

I’d sell my soul

for your touch—

by your divinity, I’ve been tainted.

I’m down on my knees,

and you spread Heaven’s gates—

I’d brave all of Hell

just to taste it.

My soul…

it is yours.

Have it…

take it.
I’m ok

July 16th, 2025

tell me what would change

i’m already a ghost

it would be the same

i’m already a ghost

i’m sorry for the pain

i need to be a ghost…

empty in my chest

forgotten is the soul

though i did my best

forgotten is the soul

how could i forget

the rot inside my soul

farewell, farewell,

it’s time to be a ghost

this is the real hell

and all of you are ghosts

know that it’s been swell

to each of thee a toast

so if you feel a breeze,

know that its just me

the ghost.
July 13th, 2025

your gentle grace

thawed my heart.

what greater image of hope

of rebellion

than in the ruins of a war torn world:

a single butterfly,

dancing, floating,

angelic amidst the ash.
Briefly gorgeous

July 13th, 2025

a butterfly joined me on my walk

floating with grace

her painted canvas wings

a fluttering heartbeat.

they made me pause.

what are you doing, butterfly?

i saw its past, i saw its future,

breaching its cocoon,

then faltering, returning

to the earth’s womb.

i wondered:

what are you doing, butterfly?

why?

you emerge,

you return,

simply to grace our path?

why?

nature, so peculiar,

this thing you do.

the whole of life,

it seems to have no other reason

than to be briefly beautiful
July 11th, 2025

The song of your moan

is an echo in my mind,

What a beautiful chorus,

your cry, so sublime—

Beneath my fingertips,

you became poetry —

no shortage of meaning

in each line of your body.

Buried to the hilt,

in your velvet heat —

and as you came undone,

you thanked me in repeat.

Still in you, I held you,

mere embers in a cuddle—

we melted together,

dissolved in our puddle—

Still can I taste

your need, so sweet,

you, my last meal,

there’s nothing—

no, nothing

I’d rather eat.
3/29/25 – rainbow silk

July 8th, 2025

That family rug. ornate patterns. passed down for generations. progressively woven by each hand that possessed it. expensive threads. prized.

one speck of dirt tucked under. another. another. a mole hill. then a mountain. “it’s a molehill” they’d say. “that’s a mountain” i’d say back.

secrets passed along with the rug. secrets tucked under. eventually whole identities tucked under. me hid under.

to you — protection. me, under the rug, footsteps trampling all over — bearing the weight of the family’s shame.

a heel on my throat. can’t breathe. can’t speak.

i wanted to add my thread. they don’t use rainbow silks.

nightskeye

i bloom

Creation of Adam

I’m ok

Briefly gorgeous

3/29/25 – rainbow silk