You are in every line, every breath between words. I write you into the spaces, where silence becomes the shape of your name.

My hand moves to trace your form in ink, like it’s always known your rhythm, your pulse, the soft curve of your thoughts. I wasn’t a poet until you—until you made me one, made every phrase tremble with the weight of you.

You live in the verses I never knew how to speak. You became the muse I couldn't refuse, the only one who bends my words into something more, something alive, something that belongs to you. Now, every page waits for you, breathless.