In wide arms
the world settles safely.
In one gesture
there is an opening
and a closing.
You suggested I write
with dirt and mistakes.
How ironic that is,
because all my life
I practiced my imperfect perfection,
being punished for cracks.
This year was a mix
of highs and deaths,
falls and small victories.
I did not risk enough,
yet I gave everything.
Sometimes
I wear shoes too tight,
sometimes they fall off my feet,
as if my steps
were not fully mine.
When I lie on the cold floor,
when I look at the warm sun,
I feel life, I breathe,
even if it presses on me.
I was, I am, maybe I will be
someone’s pain
or gentle touch.
You know this pain well.
An ache pierces through us
and brings both of us
a surprising resurrection.
Worrying about you,
I worry about myself,
because in a strange,
self-bound way
we are still connected,
even apart.
Nov 12, 2025
Nov 12, 2025 at 7:02 PM UTC
In wide arms
the world settles safely.
In one gesture
there is an opening
and a closing.
You suggested I write
with dirt and mistakes.
How ironic that is,
because all my life
I practiced my imperfect perfection,
being punished for cracks.
This year was a mix
of highs and deaths,
falls and small victories.
I did not risk enough,
yet I gave everything.
Sometimes
I wear shoes too tight,
sometimes they fall off my feet,
as if my steps
were not fully mine.
When I lie on the cold floor,
when I look at the warm sun,
I feel life, I breathe,
even if it presses on me.
I was, I am, maybe I will be
someone’s pain
or gentle touch.
You know this pain well.
An ache pierces through us
and brings both of us
a surprising resurrection.
Worrying about you,
I worry about myself,
because in a strange,
self-bound way
we are still connected,
even apart.
Thank you all for this year on Hello Poetry.
This is my 200th poem, and the long hours I spent looking for rhythm and my own word frequency became a kind of rescue for me.
After a long silence, the words suddenly started to flow, and your support and presence helped me understand the moment of life I am in now. This is not a goodbye but a thank you for this unusual space where I could meet kindred souls. We all struggle with different problems, but metaphors tell us a lot about ourselves, sometimes more than ordinary speech. I remember that the first poet who liked my poem was Mister Truth, and later I discovered how many great poets are here.
I repeat: as long as we put together words that come from our core, there is still hope even when people say that all the lights have gone out.
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