I always wonder
how things look
from your side—

If the light bends softer
through your windows
if sorrow
sits quieter in your chest
unbothered—
cooling
on the windowsill
of a mad house.

You see the world
like a fingertip
tracing fog on glass—
not to erase
but to understand
what’s underneath.

You are someone
who makes
even the broken
shine differently—
for me
you are on the side
no one else
can reach.