Adriana, Beneath the Pale Moon

There are nights when distance becomes a language —
a thin, trembling thread
pulled between two unseen hands.

It shifts with silence,
loosens under a deep, gentle voice
smuggled across vast, unmarked borders.

Yet, her hair holds the last light of evening,
as if dusk made one final argument against the day.

Unnamed distances,
measured only in withheld confessions,
stand between us.

A village breathes slowly —
sunflowers turn their golden heads away,
corn fields whisper in patient rows,
the earth remembers something older than time.

The map here is useless.
Every road bends back into longing,
a dawn rehearsed too many times
to still feel anew.

somewhere in that repetition—
a memory stirs: we were both once a storm.

it begins in the smallest fractures —
a voice arriving like a letter
and dissolving inside the chest,
unsealing words that were never spoken.

heart pierced by emotions that bled tears in silence,
each drop a quiet proof that even the unseen can ache.

and still—
lingering there,
within reach of thought—

moonlight finds her face,
red nails catching the faintest glow,
remembered by skin
before the first touch.

the thread tightens—
inward,
through everything left unsaid,
through the first
and the last breath.

what remains is a slow, quiet certainty—
something has already crossed the line,
grown into thorns within,
turning the absence of names
into nights.

Would I find you standing there,
beneath the pale moon,

painting silver into the night,
into horns of a long-forgotten story
still waiting —

to burn
as if it never ended.