Ink and Moonlight

"The wind blows through the pear blossoms as if it were snowing. Why does it not fall on my eyebrows?"

"A Scientist's Quiet Romance"

Don't measure my love with a ruler's cold mark—

It spills like pi's digits, infinite, dark.

Here, you needn't be binary, confined to 0 or 1—

Every version of you is April's first sun,

A silhouette that exists, singular and true.

Each time our glances almost align,

Your evasive eyes pierce this heart of mine.

Like Schrödinger's cat in its quantum disguise,

When my soul's box opens, love's answer defies—

All certainty and doubt dissolve into tides.

You're the physics problem I can't quite resolve,

The chemical formula no lab can evolve—

The one question mark in my youth's tidy scroll,

A paradox scribbled where logic lost hold.

Ink dries too fast for this infinite ache—

Let stars burn to cinders, let galaxies break,

I'd still find you trembling, too breathless to trace

The supernova swirling where our silences race.

"Butterfly, Drunk on Fermented Pears"

I refuse to write of butterflies—

how scholars' brushes dissect their grace,

stitching wings with threads of tragedy,

painting frailty in liquid gold.

You, too, wear their borrowed sorrow,

practicing the art of folded wings,

lowering your gaze like evening mist

over unspoken wounds.

Yet what you veil in silence

grows roots in my marrow—

each untold word a fossil

carved deeper than moth dust

in amber.