who has taught their storms
to whisper.
The world reads you as steady —
a spine of steel,
a face that does not flinch —
never seeing
how your hands remember
every tremor.
Inside, you are tide and moon,
pulled by unnamed distances,
writing love letters
to places that do not exist
yet ache like home.
You keep your poems
like folded prayers,
offering them only
to those who know
how to hold fragile light.
And still —
after the chill of horror,
the rush of thrill,
the bruised pulse of romance —
you close the page
with two companions:
longing,
and the stubborn bloom of hope.
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