everyone is becoming
everything is becoming

the grass wakes up in pulses of green

trees stretch into themselves again

birds rehearse joy like a familiar script
and
I
a bare tree
not dead
just undecorated
too naked amongst the luscious
I sit in the middle of blooming

like a teenager who missed the cue

my skin doesn’t feel new


the light touches everything with tenderness

except me

skipping over
like I’m not ready

or not worth

or not

yet

maybe this is my season of pause
maybe
but maybe
I’m just behind
and it’s hard
watching the world dress itself in celebration
while I stand here

unbuttoned

unfinished

unbecoming

I would give you my slice of life, but
it’s like trying to hand you the horizon
a stretch of color that can never fit in your palm
You’d ask for details,
and I’d offer the taste of rain on the skin,
the way the world holds its breath before thunder,
a pause that fills your lungs like forgotten words.

There are mornings I wake up
and the air feels like an old letter,
creases worn smooth by time
I would give you that too,
but how do you hold a memory
that hasn’t yet figured out what it is?

You would want to know about the silence
between the seconds
the space where nothing happens
and everything happens
I’d give you that,
if I could explain how it feels
to sit with a half-made thought.

I can only offer fragments
a fleeting look in someone’s eyes,
the quiet rhythm of a clock
refusing to rush when you want it to
the way a day slips from morning to evening
I would give you my slice of life,
but all I have are these pieces,
and none of them are quite enough
quite complete
to make you feel what it’s like
to live inside them

Some days, it’s a hunger
a deep pull from the stomach,
not for food, not for water,
but for something unnamed,
something just out of reach.

It’s in the way the morning air feels electric,
like possibility itself,
how the sun spills over cracked sidewalks,
touching everything,
saying, Look. Be here. Want more.

It’s in the ache of laughter
that lasts too long,
in the way music grips the ribs
and shakes loose something tender.
It’s the way fingers linger
when hands almost meet.

And yes, some days, the hunger fades,
buried under the weight of routine,
but then
a scent, a sound, a sudden rush of memory
and there it is again,
the pull, the ache, the craving
for more of this,
this fragile, fleeting, impossible thing.

This life.

Dear Reader, Writer, Feeler

I don’t know where you are
By a window, light tilting in like an old song,
or on a train, the world rushing past faster than your thoughts
Maybe somewhere quieter, where the air hums with your own company
Maybe in a rotten fantasy

Wherever you are  thank you

For reading
for letting words settle inside you, heavy or light,
for holding them when they ache,
for listening to strangers who somehow know your heart

For writing
for pulling something trembling and half-born from yourself,
even when the lines come out crooked,
even when no one is watching
You make something where there was nothing
That’s a kind of miracle

For feeling
for staying soft in a world that worships sharp edges,
for carrying joy and grief in the same, open hands,
dead and alive
for letting beauty ruin you, again and again
You are proof that tenderness survives

Poetry isn’t far away
It’s not precious, not locked behind glass
It’s built from the marrow of us
from the things we say and the things we never will

It exists because you do
It matters because you make it matter

Thank you for showing up
For the words, the silences, and the spaces in between

The world feels less lonely because you’re here

With love,
A fellow traveler

Between Blur and Distance
The light scatters, soft and indifferent,

Bokeh blooms behind me - city lights, street lamps,

or maybe just the sun breaking on restless water
It doesn’t matter what
Only that it’s blurred
Only that it doesn’t ask to be seen clearly
Somewhere beyond the edges of this frame,

Point Nemo waits
An oceanic nowhere,
a place so far from touch

that even the waves forget they’re supposed to come back
No one stands there
No one ever did
It is a coordinate without a witness
just like my breaking heart
I wonder,
am I the subject or the blur?

The focus or the absence?
I am clearly the point nemo
sea around me people with faces not focused
or who dont focus on me
I am boken
or
Broken
or maybe both
or somewhere in between