noctivagant-ghost

[noctivagant-ghost]

i’m going through something in my personal life right now, and i need to step away.

i’m not sure i’ll be returning. i just know i can’t be here right now. Surrounded by the words inspired by that one person.

thank you for reading my work, for reblogging it, for making space for it.

i hope it meant something to you. it meant a lot to me.

please be kind to yourselves.

and if i never write again, it’s only because i found peace where words could not follow.

[noctivagant-ghost]

[noctivagant-ghost]

still my favourite...

death found me weeping by the stair, and tucked a cold hand through my hair, she whispered low against my ear, "hush now, love, there's nothing here." her breath was winter, sweet and slow, her arms the only home i'd know, she brushed the dust across my skin, and told my heart to fold within. i felt the world grow far, then near, a trembling song i strained to hear, my bones, unstitched, began to sigh, "you can let go. it's time to lie." the dark was soft, the dark was wide, it pressed its mouth against my side, and as it kissed my final keep, i did not fall. i fell to sleep.

[noctivagant-ghost]

wonderful news.

[noctivagant-ghost]

✩☾

she sings in orbit, far from me, in echoes stitched to gravity. her eyes were moons, her breath was glass, i touched her once, she let it pass. i write her name in dying stars, and hope it reaches where you are.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

[noctivagant-ghost]

i write on windows to pass the storm, the fog is kinder than goodbye. the rain returns in human form it knocks, but never tells me why.

[noctivagant-ghost]

you touched my hand, then looked away, like something sacred split in two. my ribs were locked in disarray, a palace built of aching blue. you never kissed me, not quite right but every day still ends with you.

[noctivagant-ghost]

i watched you drink the dusk from leaves, your hands all trembling, soft with light. the dusk, like me, refused to grieve still hoping you would stay the night.

[noctivagant-ghost]

the leaves are dry, the wind is thin, and every thought still smells like skin. your name is etched in frost and pine. i kiss the air you used to fill a ritual, a need, a thrill. the ache is how i know you’re mine.

[noctivagant-ghost]

you touched my wrist like lighting prayer, each fingertip a psalm half-spoken. i swore my breath was water, not air, but silence was the vow unbroken. the saints all wept in oil and stone and left me in that pew alone.

[noctivagant-ghost]

She remains a dream

She was as stars in the night's embrace, A rainbow born of storm's sweet grace Her beauty, a sight I couldn't touch, Ethereal, elusive, I admired so much A presence celestial, she did impart, Leaving me yearning, yet apart In her radiance, a dream so bright, In darkness, seeking her light Every moment with her, a cosmic dance, A masterpiece of fate's own chance, But still, she remained beyond my grasp, A vision I couldn't clasp Lost in her allure, I reached for the sky, Captivated by her distant, radiant cry Forever drawn to her light, I sigh For she remains a dream, soaring high

[noctivagant-ghost]

The Lighthouse - PROLOGUE (Preview)

The Version Where He Stayed

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

There was a version of me that never let him in.

I think about that sometimes. How simple it might have been to close the door and keep it closed. To ignore the knock. To forget the sound of his voice before it had the chance to mean something.

How easy, really; just a turn of the latch, a breath held one second longer, and the moment would’ve passed. I could’ve turned up the radio. Pretended I was asleep. Stayed in the bath until the water turned cold.

But that isn’t the version that survived.

The one that did? He watched the sea long enough to hear it whisper back. He waited. And the waiting became worship. Something between prayer and punishment. A kind of hunger that fed on itself.

I don’t know if he was real. Some days, I think he was just the shape my loneliness took when it got tired of being quiet. A shadow I stopped flinching from. A thought that stayed too long and began to make tea.

Other days… I can still feel where he touched me. Not skin. Deeper. Like he reached in and adjusted something fundamental; bent it, just slightly, so I’d always lean toward him. Like he didn’t want to hold me, just reorient me. Point me toward the place I’d spend the rest of my life trying to return to.

He never said he loved me. Not out loud. But the silence between us was full of things I wasn’t brave enough to name. They lived in the way he looked at me when he thought I wasn’t watching. In the way his hands hovered near mine, always close enough to feel the warmth, never close enough to hold.

We shared dreams. Or maybe he borrowed mine. He'd stand too close in rooms that shouldn't exist. Rooms with too many doors and not enough exits.

Sometimes he looked like me. Sometimes he didn’t. But he always felt familiar; like grief that had finally grown a face. A face I didn’t know how to walk away from.

And I let him stay. I told myself it was temporary. That he’d leave when the lights came back on. That I’d wake up and he’d just be condensation on the mirror.

I don’t remember when the rooms started rearranging themselves. When the furniture grew legs. When the shadows stopped obeying the walls. When the tea began tasting like goodbyes.

But I remember this:

He said there would be a moment. A choice. And when it came, I would already know what I’d do because I’d already done it, once, in another version of myself I couldn’t remember being.

I laughed when he said that. A shallow, embarrassed sound. He didn’t. 

He just touched my hand, gently, like apology, and said,

“Next time, maybe you’ll choose mercy.”

That was before the water rose. Before the light broke. Before the sky split open like something alive. Like something trying to come home.

Now the rooms are wrong again. Now the kettle screams even when it's empty. Now I wake up with someone else’s name in my mouth.

And every time I close my eyes, he’s there.

Waiting.

Asking if I remember.

And I do.

Just not the right version.

[noctivagant-ghost]

Your sapphire spirit spilled forth a galaxy of unforeseen wonders upon my polar night of soul-eclipse isolation

[noctivagant-ghost]

[noctivagant-ghost]

Moonlit Night at Sea

— by Ivan Aivazovsky

[noctivagant-ghost]

the wind forgot to say my name, but i still turned, i came the same. not pulled by hope, nor grief, nor call, but by the silence in it all.

[noctivagant-ghost]

i am not haunted i am just remembering incorrectly the rooms weren’t empty they just didn’t recognize me anymore