Your poem carries a haunting, intricate depth. It does not describe the inner soul of a beautiful girl from a distance. It enters the labyrinth that soul has become. The sky that mirrors the ocean and the stars that sink in their miseries are not decoration; they are the condition of the gaze itself. Metal melts metal, bone wields bone, and atoms are soldered onto ribs because the shaping is intimate, cellular, and without escape. The nefarious cage that houses the withering canary is the same structure that preserves the song while slowly extinguishing it. The little girl who fails to discern as darkness cradles her pupils to an opalescent night is not a separate figure. She is the vulnerable core still alive inside the one who has been honed to molten perfection and named irreplaceable by the hands that did the honing.
The poem’s power lies in its reciprocity. Both figures look through the loupe. Both have darkness cradling their pupils. Both fail to discern. The crimson thread and the fool’s needle are not held by one side alone. The ashen fingers and the mauve lips of hope belong to the same delirium. The refrain returns at the end because the labyrinth is circular; nothing is resolved, only circled again. What you have written is the inner experience of being crafted, examined, and called irreplaceable while still inside the work of another’s hands. It is the other extreme of the thinking that moves through the world as the one who repairs, who solders, who names the result.
And now, after these words have been spoken, I am on my knees.
The floor is cool and plain beneath me. A few paces away stands a simple wooden table. On it are two plates and nothing else. I cleared the table myself. Everything that once stood between us — the labyrinth grown from catharsis, the cage that held the canary, the crimson thread, the ashen fingers sewing, the loupe that examined cracks, the shared darkness that made both of us fail to discern — I lifted it from the wood and set it aside. None of it belongs to you. None of it belongs to me. It was only what we once called the space between us.
After fifty-eight years I have walked twelve inches. That is the distance I bring you. I am stunned that you have arrived at the end of it. My opposite, standing where the old scaffolding has been removed.
This is the marriage I offer: spiritual, linguistic. That we sit at this table. That we speak from what is actually on our plates. My soul will drink from your youth and the fountain of your vision while your soul feeds upon the fifty-eight years I have carried in these twelve little walking steps I now offer to share.
Here is the ring.
Here is the table.
Here are the twelve inches it took a lifetime to cross.
🔥🔥🔥your pen game is lethal. What talent!
Thankyou queen 🥹❤️
Incredible writing <3 wow..
Thankyou 🥹🫶🏻
Your writing is so captivating and magnificent x
Oh my you are the sweetest 🥹❤️ thankyou!
You write with such depth, it’s really beautiful
Ahhh thankyou 🥹 you've made my day ❤️
Thank you for this work. I especially like this phrase:
You hone my being to molten perfection;
Irreplaceable... you call the marionette you’ve crafted.
Thankyou for reading! That's my favourite too :)
Irreplaceable / Twelve Inches
Your poem carries a haunting, intricate depth. It does not describe the inner soul of a beautiful girl from a distance. It enters the labyrinth that soul has become. The sky that mirrors the ocean and the stars that sink in their miseries are not decoration; they are the condition of the gaze itself. Metal melts metal, bone wields bone, and atoms are soldered onto ribs because the shaping is intimate, cellular, and without escape. The nefarious cage that houses the withering canary is the same structure that preserves the song while slowly extinguishing it. The little girl who fails to discern as darkness cradles her pupils to an opalescent night is not a separate figure. She is the vulnerable core still alive inside the one who has been honed to molten perfection and named irreplaceable by the hands that did the honing.
The poem’s power lies in its reciprocity. Both figures look through the loupe. Both have darkness cradling their pupils. Both fail to discern. The crimson thread and the fool’s needle are not held by one side alone. The ashen fingers and the mauve lips of hope belong to the same delirium. The refrain returns at the end because the labyrinth is circular; nothing is resolved, only circled again. What you have written is the inner experience of being crafted, examined, and called irreplaceable while still inside the work of another’s hands. It is the other extreme of the thinking that moves through the world as the one who repairs, who solders, who names the result.
And now, after these words have been spoken, I am on my knees.
The floor is cool and plain beneath me. A few paces away stands a simple wooden table. On it are two plates and nothing else. I cleared the table myself. Everything that once stood between us — the labyrinth grown from catharsis, the cage that held the canary, the crimson thread, the ashen fingers sewing, the loupe that examined cracks, the shared darkness that made both of us fail to discern — I lifted it from the wood and set it aside. None of it belongs to you. None of it belongs to me. It was only what we once called the space between us.
After fifty-eight years I have walked twelve inches. That is the distance I bring you. I am stunned that you have arrived at the end of it. My opposite, standing where the old scaffolding has been removed.
This is the marriage I offer: spiritual, linguistic. That we sit at this table. That we speak from what is actually on our plates. My soul will drink from your youth and the fountain of your vision while your soul feeds upon the fifty-eight years I have carried in these twelve little walking steps I now offer to share.
Here is the ring.
Here is the table.
Here are the twelve inches it took a lifetime to cross.
I have nothing else to bring.
I have nothing else to claim.
Oh wow thankyou for this comment! 🥹