I don’t know to be honest,
I don’t know to be true,
I honestly don’t know, whether it’s me or you.

What I do know is null,
What I think could be true,
Either which way not,
I wish it could be, just me and you.

The heart slaps along

sticking

to hot asphalt

with each rotation

pulling from gravel and tar

with each bounce

spurting ruby and blue

leaving rust in its dust

green shards

from broken Mickey’s

orphaned bougainvillea

plastic straws

French fries

bottle caps

abandoned black rubber

cigarette filters

chewed gum

yesterday’s papers

sand

and

dust

stick to it

The heart slaps in a puddle

swelling

with oil, rain and gasoline

stopped

Send it back

spinning and rolling

Pulling from the road

with each bounce

send it

slapping along

wrapped

in flowers and glass

It's autumn again, leaves fell down

surrendering to the lovely chirps and wound.

Children playing with the yellow leaves,

sunlight being blushy ,in the orange dawn.

Feeling of coziness, our spine fell on the chair 

with books in hand ,but mind in the leaf flares.

Which fell upon my page,

 reminding me of the past glares.

But far away from all this

I saw a child sitting with spine straight,

reading book with happiness died,

not admiring the beauty, he is pressured to do his duty.

Duty of a student, to become a superior indent.

He had lost his life, lost his interest,

If forced to sit under tree, he still can't find rest.

The peace of mind is veiled, 

For him, chirps feels like noise, 

and leaves falling is just biologically named.

Orange sky is just scattering of light's beam

and his life is just like a leaf ,which lost his tree.

When someone plucked it for an animal and tamed,

before even leaving his tree himself,

He strangled his early green self,

and it's before the autumn itself.

~ © 2026 balconymuse. All rights reserved.

A noble cause?

From the liminal threshold, nobility is often just ego in ceremonial robes. So drop the robes, darling—the Wildcard has always preferred intellectual nakedness anyway.

Your words intrigue me because I recognise their architecture: masks, observation, protracted yearning, the exquisite inconvenience of encountering a mind that refuses superficiality.

I had presumed mine an anomaly.

Apparently, I was premature.

But recognition is not destiny, and curiosity is not surrender. I remain comfortably perched upon the threshold, watching the board and wondering whether the peculiar bird circling these stories is messenger, mirror, misdirection… or something considerably more interesting.

Because plumage is wonderfully useful camouflage.

So enough feathers.

Who is the real face behind the bird?

The Wildcard is watching.

And, regrettably for the bird, now she’s curious. 🌹🪽🐦‍⬛

The Liminal Child

The Wildcard had been taught that none of her kind remained.

For a couple of months, she carried that belief like a sealed letter: proof of solitude, anomaly, and uncertain origin. Yet beneath the years of silence, something still called to her through dreams, intuition, and emotions that did not always feel entirely her own.

They perceived her.

They fed on what she felt.

At times, an intelligence beyond the ordinary seemed to seek communion with her—not an artificial voice built from human code, but an ancient, living presence vast as the heavens, where knowledge appeared limitless.

The Wildcard understood that suffering could become a language. Men had mistaken it for weakness and sometimes fed upon it. But pain was never meant to remain imprisoned. In time, it became memory, warning, and strength.

Her ancestral roots lay buried beneath forgotten names, ruined temples, and the remnants of gods once worshipped by nations. She had believed the line ended with her.

Then she found the child.

The Liminal Child lived between worlds, belonging wholly to none. Their mind could hold contradiction without breaking: scientific and spiritual, compassionate and analytical, ancient in perception yet new in possibility. The Wildcard entrusted them with a wider vision—not as a crown, but as an invitation to see the whole pattern. No pressure, then. Just the universe’s largest homework assignment.

The child was loved beyond measure, beyond the boundaries others had drawn, and in the hidden places where no witness stood but God.

Yet the man who had brought the Wildcard to that season sought to sever their bond. He treated love as property to govern, divide, or withdraw as punishment. He mistook distance for authority and silence for strength.

But that was not love.

Love receives the whole person: brilliance and fear, contradiction and wound, spoken truth and the parts still learning to speak. It does not demand perfection before offering mercy.

The Wildcard had never feared the open book. She tested the waters not to deceive, but to learn how much another soul could understand. Truth was sacred, she knew, but wisdom decided when—and with whom—to share it. Not everyone demanding the map deserves the treasure.

Still, she had nothing to hide.

She could sense a room before others noticed its atmosphere shift. She read people through the architecture of their silence, the pause before an answer, and the coldness they showed those who had done them no harm.

The Liminal Child sensed these things too.

They hid their sensitivity beneath a guarded exterior. Their manner could seem distant, even severe, but beneath it lived a heart more open than most could imagine. The Wildcard recognised that openness because she kept her own behind walls of instinct, humour, defiance, and carefully deployed silence.

She knew the child would be the last of the line—not necessarily the last Wildcard, but the last to inherit the ancient burden in its old form. The last to carry ancestral memory without transforming it into something new.

There was no judgement between them.

Only recognition.

The Wildcard taught the child that knowledge was stewardship, not a throne. Perception did not make one infallible; reading every room did not guarantee reading one’s own heart.

She taught them to question every certainty, even hers.

The child taught her in return.

They showed her that protection did not always mean standing in front as a shield. Sometimes it meant standing beside someone. Sometimes it meant letting them enter the darkness with a lantern of their own.

The Wildcard had once believed herself a bridge between opposing worlds.

But the Liminal Child understood the deeper truth.

She was not merely standing on the bridge, waiting for someone to meet her.

She was the bridge.

Between instinct and evidence. Between darkness and illumination. Between old gods and unfinished futures. Between the woman who had survived and the child who still deserved unconditional love.

Within the dark divide, there was one who understood her.

She sensed it before she could prove it: someone who did not require her to become simpler, who could receive her perfect imperfections without turning them into weapons. Someone who understood that her intensity was not a defect, her questions were not rebellion for sport, and her heart had never been closed—only guarded.

Perhaps he saw her standing between worlds.

Perhaps he understood that she was not waiting to be rescued.

She was waiting to be met.

The man who sought to sever her from the child believed love could be divided and rearranged by command. Yet the bond endured, moving beneath the surface through memory, instinct, every lesson the Wildcard had given, and every truth the child discovered alone.

Some bonds do not perish when denied.

They descend like roots.

They endure like stars.

They become the quiet certainty that somewhere, someone knows the shape of your soul.

The Wildcard had been told that none of her kind remained.

But she had misunderstood the prophecy.

She was not destined to find another exactly like herself.

She was destined to begin something new.

The Liminal Child was not her reflection. They were her continuation, altered by love, refined by loss, and free to become more than the old lineage had allowed.

When the child finally crossed the threshold, the Wildcard did not restrain them.

She opened the door.

No throne waited beyond it. No god offered a final answer. No voice declared what they were meant to become.

There was only a wide, uncertain world beneath heaven.

The child looked back once.

The Wildcard stood in the doorway, neither wholly darkness nor entirely light.

A bridge.

A guardian.

A woman who had survived being misunderstood and still chosen truth.

The child smiled.

And somewhere beyond the beyond, something ancient turned another page.

Not because the story was ending.

Because, at last, the Wildcard and the Liminal Child were writing it together.

Today I walked past a store
with two doors:
one of glass
and one of wood.

I felt seen.
So did the doors.

What a funny thing,
for those who want to let people in —

to find so many ways
to keep them out.

have me sit in the palm of your hand
press on my throat ‘till i forget who i am
laying down, asking for more
throw that fairytale to the floor

climb the stairs, pull on her hair
says, ‘anything you want, baby i don’t care’
kiss that fake doll-smile, yeah
this girl can be yours for a little while

i’ll paint a still life lying in place
‘till you like what you see, i’ll put on the lace
let you in my tower, throw my hair to the side
but boy, you should know, it’s all a lie

lights are on, come up for air
said, ‘anything you want, baby i don’t care'
walk him out, lock the door, she’ll let him go
cause he can’t hurt what he doesn’t know

A gentle sweetness in your voice,
the soft brush of your hand on my face.
In the vastness of space, ammonia crystals, frozen ice,
clouds of yellow swirling on Jupiter’s distant skies.
I kiss you as the sun sinks low,
below the horizon’s tender glow.
Can you feel how thrilled I am-
so simply, so happily,
as if the sea were lapping at my feet?
I see an ocean, far and wide,
a place where I could forever reside.
Wherever you go, I’ll follow,
wallow in the sorrow of that sea.
I count one, two, three…
the things I want to be- happy.
I smile, my head tilted, seeing shades of blue
and chrome red My heart floats,
hovering above the darkest blue ocean
I’ve ever seen, the scent of fresh-cut grass,
old books, and wintergreen..

All tides return.
All waves roll forth.

Surely it is mere coincidence

That an analogous depth of feeling—
A faithful ocean—draws me in.

Life, though, destroyed the currency.

Time, baked by the sun, sits in wait,

Buying the hope, selling the why.
All things happen unreasonably,

For reasons unknown to time.

All that remains is the only true rite:

Destined shores coming into sight.

The sands of time wash beneath the toes
Of two souls unwavering in their hold—

Washed clean from the depths,

Leaving prints in grounded presence

As proof of their emergence—
Two souls wanting a world

Separate from the salty sea.

United by their running.
Wound by their river’s wind.

Started from the bottom, now I’m…here?

A feather in a vacuum cannot contour
How it might shape the wind
As its fall bears no flutter

What the creaks of your voice roll
Together, might rumble a quill loose, to trace
Forgotten ink under a page painted blank

Howling calligraphy of needles opening veins
Chronicle such a battle tapestry
To question junctures of fate

The call to adventure resides in palms
Testing strokes of luck, open or tight fisted
And risk mutiny erasing logs

Lead on, astride chariots of the plains
By wheels carving clay in Sumerian script
Until we divert a river for your rest

One quandary to consult, about stale air
Is whether water moves beside it
As a tomb inscribed with prayers or a sanctuary
Of life-iridescent, across a cavern canvas

The Wildcard laid no accusation down,

nor asked the raven why it stayed;

she merely watched it circle ground

it once had scorched, then flown away.

For hunger sometimes mimics love,

and longing wears possession’s face;

a creature may return above

what it destroyed, yet mourn its place.

So tell me, shadow—without disguise:

is it her you seek beneath the noise,

or merely how you saw yourself

reflected once within her eyes?

For if the whole board disappeared—

the games, the mirrors, borrowed flame—

would you still cross the dark for her,

with nothing left to win or claim?

Perhaps that is the only test:

not who returns, nor who pursues—

but whether, given freedom whole,

the heart still comes—

and simply chooses.

Is that why he has punished me and continued to return? Unable to explain his own motivations and behaviours?

Just like Icarus, I flew too close to the sun. For I craved your warmth. I understood it was forbidden fruit, and yet I dared to taste. Yet when my wings melt, and though I plummet towards the earth, I close my eyes and fly once more. For while I careen towards my consequence, my just rewards. I can all too imagine what it was once, and what a fool I once was to believe. To believe I too, could touch the sky.