The sky does not always thunder,
some days it only hums—
a low lullaby in pastel blue,
resting on your windowpane.

There is beauty in stillness,
like dew-beads clinging to a spider’s thread,
fragile, glimmering, unseen
but alive.

You are not late.
The garden blooms when it’s ready—
not a moment before.
Even the moon takes its time
to become full.

So let yourself be tired.
Let the ache sit beside you.
It will not stay forever.
It knows you’re learning,
and learning is slow.

One day, the breath in your chest
will feel like enough.
The dawn will no longer feel
like a beginning you’ve missed.
You’ll sip morning light
and say,
I made it.

Not with fanfare,
not with fire—
but with soft feet
on soft earth,
and a heart that chose
to stay.

The walls don’t echo anymore.
The sound of your voice
used to cling to the corners
like dusk settling in the seams—
now there’s just
stillness
that chokes.

I say your name
like a dropped plate
shattering in an empty hallway—
and you
don’t
flinch.

The space between us
is crowded with things
you’ll never say.
Your silence is a scythe
trimming down
my worth.

Every glance you avoid
draws a chalk outline
around the version of me
you no longer see.

I water the air with apologies
that never bloom.
You offer nothing,
and still,
I bend
like sun-starved vines
toward the warmth
of nothing.

How loud you are
without a single word.

Beneath the hush of silver rain,
a seed waits in the dark—
not for lack of light,
but in honor of time.

The river does not rush the stone,
nor the moon beg the sun for dawn.
Even stars take centuries
to whisper their names in light.

Patience is the hush in the hallway
before the door opens,
the breath before the answer,
the ache before the bloom.

Learn from the tree—
how it bears the weight of seasons
without breaking.
How it drinks storms and silence
without complaint.

You are becoming.
Not in bursts,
but in slow, sacred folds
of being.

Let the days pass.
Let the sky spin.
You are not late—
you are rooting.

Each time you step into view,
it’s like the first time—
a lightning strike of wonder,
a slow-burning sunrise blooming behind my ribs.

Your eyes catch mine, and I swear—
the world resets.

Every glance is an untouched page,
every smile, an unheard melody,
each moment with you, a beginning again and again.

I have memorized the way your voice folds into the air,
how your hands move like poetry in motion,
yet every time—
it’s discovery, it’s breathlessness, it’s new.

Loving you is an echo with no end,
a star collapsing only to be reborn,
a loop where time folds into itself
and delivers me back to that first look,
again, again, and again…