I keep writing to you,
day in and day out,
in languages of wind -
questions with no address,
apologies unechoed.
Are you warm there?
Does the light stay gentle
on the face I still see
when I close my eyes?
Peace was never
what you knew best.
You were made of storms,
and wrecking silences.
So tell me,
if whispers cross that border:
Do you finally feel safe?
Or is it me stitching
meaning into absence?
If you're hurting, I would
trade every breath
to unknot the dark.
Still spinning stories,
not knowing, but begging the air:
one feather, my love.
Just one little sign to know:
you're loved, you're safe,
you're light at last.
Jun 8, 2025
Jun 8, 2025 at 8:42 PM UTC
I keep writing to you,
day in and day out,
in languages of wind -
questions with no address,
apologies unechoed.
Are you warm there?
Does the light stay gentle
on the face I still see
when I close my eyes?
Peace was never
what you knew best.
You were made of storms,
and wrecking silences.
So tell me,
if whispers cross that border:
Do you finally feel safe?
Or is it me stitching
meaning into absence?
If you're hurting, I would
trade every breath
to unknot the dark.
Still spinning stories,
not knowing, but begging the air:
one feather, my love.
Just one little sign to know:
you're loved, you're safe,
you're light at last.
