No one noticed when we slipped beneath the tide,
our bodies weightless, swaying slow,
the world above a distant hush—
only the hush, only the glow.

Seahorses curl like secrets in the deep,
golden spines bending with the waves,
we let the water braid our hands,
a quiet promise, softly saved.

The current hums a lullaby,
your voice dissolves into the blue,
I turn to you, you turn away—
what else is there for us to do?

No one noticed when the sky let go,
when salt became the air we breathed,
the ocean held us, gentle ghosts—
and never asked if we would leave.

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.