The messenger fractures the dawn, arriving without a message. Light is stranded in the hollow of the collarbone. We watch the moment rehearse its own extinction Flame alone, the compass; Sparks alone, our stories. –Jujube
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I need the sea because it teaches me. I don’t know if I learn music or awareness, if it’s a single wave or its vast existence, or only its harsh voice or its shining suggestion of fishes and ships. The fact is that until I…
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The beast of night, lost in silence. In its eyes, an unnamed sea. The boy’s breath settles among moss The compass sleeps inside the backpack. We sit side by side, a footnote to the forest, waiting for a shooting star to point the way to…
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The window hold the chill outside, Muted red and gray-blue laze upon the bed, clinging to the warmth she left behind. Books bear the weight of her thoughts, growing in every direction. The orange cat kneads silence into a ball, and buries it deep inside…
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The moon dictates the palette. Bare branches write down the theme. Time thins to a single breath. Only a red note, a small refusal, betrays the world’s lingering warmth. –Jujube
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the ceramic holds its breath let the flowers define the air sweetened conversations linger in the shadows asking the empty chairs who decides what moment lasts –Jujube
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The early winter woods are a letter Torn open by the wind Script scatters on the ground Shifting, recombining Sunlight hesitates among the branches Weaving threads of gray Trying to string together a plot Only to read Two silent ellipses — Jujube
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In the hush of shadows, the pond tries to remember who it was mirroring. Like the white and red blooms, we live for a moment of illumination— then return to where light cannot follow. — Jujube
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You move through a whisper, loosening from its own name. Birds rise. Grass bends. The sun hesitates. We are not what we once were— the field knows this. It gives you back to the wind, without ceremony. — Jujube
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In distant lands, on hill and plain, thus do I dream, when nights are long, — and memory gives back again the whisper of that long-lost song. — V. Nabokov
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You can almost hear it — autumn’s last gasp a pomegranate split open grapes hang low drowsy a pear half-turned to gold held by the brush silently resists decay — jujube
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The window holds the breath of rain. I sink into the blueness of sleep. Dream and daylight braid, as the shadows of the leaves sway.
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I have no need, for my nocturnal travels, of ships, I have no need of trains. The moon’s above the checkerboard-like garden. The window’s open. I am set. — V. Nabokov
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Wine hums, lanterns flicker. Moon sneers, time falls into dust. Who stitches sorrow in the dimming light, While night is still young. - Jujube
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Not quite a bed, not quite a bench. Wallpaper: a grim yellow. A pair of chairs. A squinty looking-glass. We enter — my shadow and I. — V. Nabokov
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Tipsy antiquity, barely holds the coolness of the gleam. Time lingers, soft as the evening’s breath. - Jujube
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in that townlet in the towers’ shadow the sound of life was reckless clatter, the mixture of tipsy antiquity and of the present liveliness were healthful for me: my soul’s ready to relish everything beneath the moon, the ancient and the new. — V. Nabokov
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We so firmly believed in the linkage of life, but now I’ve looked back — and it is astonishing to what a degree you, my youth, seem in tints not mine, in traits not real. — V. Nabokov
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Memory creeps like moss along the wall. I stand in the hollow alley, recalling her voice only to hear the murmur of my own shadow - Jujube
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