I. Left Arm
A hush in motion,
arms begin their arch —
like bridges bending
toward heartbeat harbors.
Hands become question marks,
asking: Are you real, too?
II. The Middle
Inhale meets inhale.
A spine leans into its echo.
This is not silence—
it is listening, still and warm.
III. Right Arm
Fingers finish the sentence.
Two bodies bracket a breath,
then exhale the same punctuation.mak
Let go. Not apart. Just wider.
A hug is not just arms around a body.
It’s the quiet agreement that you are here,
and I am here,
and in this small moment, we are not alone.
It is the architecture of presence—
built without blueprints,
rising from instinct,
constructed in silence.
A hug doesn’t ask questions.
It doesn’t require explanations.
It listens with skin,
responds with pressure,
and holds what cannot be spoken.
It can say “I missed you”
without syllables.
It can say “You’re safe,”
even when nothing else feels that way.
When the world is too loud,
a hug is the volume dial turned down.
When you’ve come undone,
a hug doesn’t try to fix—
it simply stays.
It can be the end of a long fight,
or the beginning of forgiveness.
It can remind you
what steady feels like,
what warm feels like,
what being wanted feels like.
And here’s the literal truth:
A hug slows the heart.
It lowers cortisol,
eases muscle tension,
and tells your nervous system
that you are not in danger.
A hug is a biological signal:
You matter.
You are not a threat.
You can rest now.
Sometimes, that’s all it takes to keep going.
I wrote this poem after hugging my girlfriend behind a few weeks ago. We are long-distance partners so every hug means so much to me. But I feel the same way hugging with my friends and family, and I realized how poetic hugs are.
