Andrew Alexander
@zeichnete.bsky.social
Whispering into the void.
What strange harvest is this:
not the iron sorrow of death
nor the pitiless silence of ending
but tender ache,
a melancholy that tastes of honey and salt.
not the iron sorrow of death
nor the pitiless silence of ending
but tender ache,
a melancholy that tastes of honey and salt.
December 4, 2025 at 9:09 PM
What strange harvest is this:
not the iron sorrow of death
nor the pitiless silence of ending
but tender ache,
a melancholy that tastes of honey and salt.
not the iron sorrow of death
nor the pitiless silence of ending
but tender ache,
a melancholy that tastes of honey and salt.
Each time I see you,
the tide within me rises—
your eyes,
every glance,
is a new wave breaking,
and in its salt I am born again.
the tide within me rises—
your eyes,
every glance,
is a new wave breaking,
and in its salt I am born again.
October 24, 2025 at 8:15 AM
Each time I see you,
the tide within me rises—
your eyes,
every glance,
is a new wave breaking,
and in its salt I am born again.
the tide within me rises—
your eyes,
every glance,
is a new wave breaking,
and in its salt I am born again.
Only the stars remain.
They do not abandon,
do not forget.
Even when I close my eyes,
their fire travels across centuries
to press against my skin.
They do not abandon,
do not forget.
Even when I close my eyes,
their fire travels across centuries
to press against my skin.
September 22, 2025 at 4:07 AM
Only the stars remain.
They do not abandon,
do not forget.
Even when I close my eyes,
their fire travels across centuries
to press against my skin.
They do not abandon,
do not forget.
Even when I close my eyes,
their fire travels across centuries
to press against my skin.
I am drifting now,
free of her gravity—
once I circled
tidally locked,
rent by heat and mass.
But the tether is gone,
now I move
without falling.
free of her gravity—
once I circled
tidally locked,
rent by heat and mass.
But the tether is gone,
now I move
without falling.
August 5, 2025 at 6:24 AM
I am drifting now,
free of her gravity—
once I circled
tidally locked,
rent by heat and mass.
But the tether is gone,
now I move
without falling.
free of her gravity—
once I circled
tidally locked,
rent by heat and mass.
But the tether is gone,
now I move
without falling.
I sealed the wound with flame,
burned your name from my mind.
The silence bled—
I let it.
burned your name from my mind.
The silence bled—
I let it.
June 21, 2025 at 12:10 AM
I sealed the wound with flame,
burned your name from my mind.
The silence bled—
I let it.
burned your name from my mind.
The silence bled—
I let it.
Dad.
Hands once dexterous,
fumble with buttons,
tug at the edges of memory.
He walks slower now,
like Time has thickened beneath his feet.
The sun does not chase him
the way it used to—
it lingers,
politely.
Hands once dexterous,
fumble with buttons,
tug at the edges of memory.
He walks slower now,
like Time has thickened beneath his feet.
The sun does not chase him
the way it used to—
it lingers,
politely.
June 7, 2025 at 5:47 PM
Dad.
Hands once dexterous,
fumble with buttons,
tug at the edges of memory.
He walks slower now,
like Time has thickened beneath his feet.
The sun does not chase him
the way it used to—
it lingers,
politely.
Hands once dexterous,
fumble with buttons,
tug at the edges of memory.
He walks slower now,
like Time has thickened beneath his feet.
The sun does not chase him
the way it used to—
it lingers,
politely.
I loved you
as the roots love rain:
deep, unseen, desperate.
But the rain does not ask to stay.
It falls, it feeds,
it leaves.
I let you go,
as the tide loosens the shore,
not with hatred,
but as Autumn releases the leaf—
a whisper of warmth fading
into its own silence.
as the roots love rain:
deep, unseen, desperate.
But the rain does not ask to stay.
It falls, it feeds,
it leaves.
I let you go,
as the tide loosens the shore,
not with hatred,
but as Autumn releases the leaf—
a whisper of warmth fading
into its own silence.
May 30, 2025 at 4:20 PM
I loved you
as the roots love rain:
deep, unseen, desperate.
But the rain does not ask to stay.
It falls, it feeds,
it leaves.
I let you go,
as the tide loosens the shore,
not with hatred,
but as Autumn releases the leaf—
a whisper of warmth fading
into its own silence.
as the roots love rain:
deep, unseen, desperate.
But the rain does not ask to stay.
It falls, it feeds,
it leaves.
I let you go,
as the tide loosens the shore,
not with hatred,
but as Autumn releases the leaf—
a whisper of warmth fading
into its own silence.
You were the moon—
not light, but longing—
a distant thirst pulling salt from my blood.
I rose and broke beneath your silver silence.
Then the sun arrived,
draping my world in fire,
and I forgot how to ache for the dark.
not light, but longing—
a distant thirst pulling salt from my blood.
I rose and broke beneath your silver silence.
Then the sun arrived,
draping my world in fire,
and I forgot how to ache for the dark.
May 15, 2025 at 5:56 AM
You were the moon—
not light, but longing—
a distant thirst pulling salt from my blood.
I rose and broke beneath your silver silence.
Then the sun arrived,
draping my world in fire,
and I forgot how to ache for the dark.
not light, but longing—
a distant thirst pulling salt from my blood.
I rose and broke beneath your silver silence.
Then the sun arrived,
draping my world in fire,
and I forgot how to ache for the dark.
You did not leave all at once,
inch by inch, so gently.
Your laughter quieted first,
then the way you used say my name,
like it belonged to you,
but your hands forgot their way to mine.
inch by inch, so gently.
Your laughter quieted first,
then the way you used say my name,
like it belonged to you,
but your hands forgot their way to mine.
May 11, 2025 at 8:14 AM
You did not leave all at once,
inch by inch, so gently.
Your laughter quieted first,
then the way you used say my name,
like it belonged to you,
but your hands forgot their way to mine.
inch by inch, so gently.
Your laughter quieted first,
then the way you used say my name,
like it belonged to you,
but your hands forgot their way to mine.
Few things make my heart sing like the dreamy pastels of towering cumulus clouds just before sunset:
April 4, 2025 at 12:41 AM
Few things make my heart sing like the dreamy pastels of towering cumulus clouds just before sunset:
You arrived like morning light
spilling through my window.
Nothing taken, nothing replaced
only more warmth
only more space.
spilling through my window.
Nothing taken, nothing replaced
only more warmth
only more space.
April 1, 2025 at 3:25 AM
You arrived like morning light
spilling through my window.
Nothing taken, nothing replaced
only more warmth
only more space.
spilling through my window.
Nothing taken, nothing replaced
only more warmth
only more space.
Burnt with windswept and hungry pride,
enthralled by the endless depths above—
How gentle the Sun!
enthralled by the endless depths above—
How gentle the Sun!
March 8, 2025 at 4:03 AM
Burnt with windswept and hungry pride,
enthralled by the endless depths above—
How gentle the Sun!
enthralled by the endless depths above—
How gentle the Sun!
Little but a shadowed heart remains:
each beat wrested from that silent void,
a hollow echo of joy once shared.
This weary soul yearns for your light,
chasing each memory like a setting star,
beneath the horizon of thought or time.
each beat wrested from that silent void,
a hollow echo of joy once shared.
This weary soul yearns for your light,
chasing each memory like a setting star,
beneath the horizon of thought or time.
March 7, 2025 at 7:17 AM
Little but a shadowed heart remains:
each beat wrested from that silent void,
a hollow echo of joy once shared.
This weary soul yearns for your light,
chasing each memory like a setting star,
beneath the horizon of thought or time.
each beat wrested from that silent void,
a hollow echo of joy once shared.
This weary soul yearns for your light,
chasing each memory like a setting star,
beneath the horizon of thought or time.
The sun returns, but not for me,
warmth unweaves what’s left of me.
You found new hands to hold you near,
left me frozen, left me here.
warmth unweaves what’s left of me.
You found new hands to hold you near,
left me frozen, left me here.
February 20, 2025 at 2:23 PM
The sun returns, but not for me,
warmth unweaves what’s left of me.
You found new hands to hold you near,
left me frozen, left me here.
warmth unweaves what’s left of me.
You found new hands to hold you near,
left me frozen, left me here.
To hold on is to grasp water,
to let go is to drown in your absence.
Night waits for my answer,
but the stars give no sign.
to let go is to drown in your absence.
Night waits for my answer,
but the stars give no sign.
February 9, 2025 at 8:28 AM
To hold on is to grasp water,
to let go is to drown in your absence.
Night waits for my answer,
but the stars give no sign.
to let go is to drown in your absence.
Night waits for my answer,
but the stars give no sign.
Poetry is for you, for you alone. If, for you, it’s poetry, it will deluge your mind, drain your heart, crinkle your pin.
—Dorothy Parker, New Yorker, January 7, 1928
—Dorothy Parker, New Yorker, January 7, 1928
February 2, 2025 at 12:33 AM
The space between our words
is a quiet canyon
etched by years of devotion.
Once, our laughter braided
the air between us,
but now, silence
wears the shape of familiarity.
is a quiet canyon
etched by years of devotion.
Once, our laughter braided
the air between us,
but now, silence
wears the shape of familiarity.
January 27, 2025 at 4:27 PM
The space between our words
is a quiet canyon
etched by years of devotion.
Once, our laughter braided
the air between us,
but now, silence
wears the shape of familiarity.
is a quiet canyon
etched by years of devotion.
Once, our laughter braided
the air between us,
but now, silence
wears the shape of familiarity.
Prose cannot convey the depths of my dissatisfaction this evening, and yet poetry eludes me.
January 22, 2025 at 6:12 AM
Prose cannot convey the depths of my dissatisfaction this evening, and yet poetry eludes me.
Love is the weight
of promises kept,
a flame tended quietly,
because I said I would.
of promises kept,
a flame tended quietly,
because I said I would.
January 17, 2025 at 3:29 AM
Love is the weight
of promises kept,
a flame tended quietly,
because I said I would.
of promises kept,
a flame tended quietly,
because I said I would.
On a cold winter morning, I sit,
head tilted back,
the bitter wind tugging at my sleeves,
tearing whispers from my hair.
Eyes closed,
I stare into the Sun’s quiet fire—
and I am a child once more,
rising into the sky on a chairlift,
the mountains a choir of white.
head tilted back,
the bitter wind tugging at my sleeves,
tearing whispers from my hair.
Eyes closed,
I stare into the Sun’s quiet fire—
and I am a child once more,
rising into the sky on a chairlift,
the mountains a choir of white.
January 7, 2025 at 8:13 PM
On a cold winter morning, I sit,
head tilted back,
the bitter wind tugging at my sleeves,
tearing whispers from my hair.
Eyes closed,
I stare into the Sun’s quiet fire—
and I am a child once more,
rising into the sky on a chairlift,
the mountains a choir of white.
head tilted back,
the bitter wind tugging at my sleeves,
tearing whispers from my hair.
Eyes closed,
I stare into the Sun’s quiet fire—
and I am a child once more,
rising into the sky on a chairlift,
the mountains a choir of white.
His word spilt forth
like overripe fruit
sweet and swollen,
bruised beneath their skin.
A flood disguised as warmth,
drowning the space
where doubt ought to breathe.
like overripe fruit
sweet and swollen,
bruised beneath their skin.
A flood disguised as warmth,
drowning the space
where doubt ought to breathe.
January 7, 2025 at 7:28 AM
His word spilt forth
like overripe fruit
sweet and swollen,
bruised beneath their skin.
A flood disguised as warmth,
drowning the space
where doubt ought to breathe.
like overripe fruit
sweet and swollen,
bruised beneath their skin.
A flood disguised as warmth,
drowning the space
where doubt ought to breathe.
The palm of my hand
rested on my face
is surprisingly heavy.
Anything but down
is defiance:
the siren song
of Earth’s gravity,
unheeded.
rested on my face
is surprisingly heavy.
Anything but down
is defiance:
the siren song
of Earth’s gravity,
unheeded.
January 1, 2025 at 9:13 AM
The palm of my hand
rested on my face
is surprisingly heavy.
Anything but down
is defiance:
the siren song
of Earth’s gravity,
unheeded.
rested on my face
is surprisingly heavy.
Anything but down
is defiance:
the siren song
of Earth’s gravity,
unheeded.
Object impermanence or irrelevance?
December 31, 2024 at 2:04 AM
Object impermanence or irrelevance?