#symmetry - Hello Poetry

It is not a thing easily traced. Not with line or logic, though there is symmetry, in quiet ways; the kind that lives in mirror-mist mornings or the way shadows stretch along collarbones. It bends between lithe and lean, as if carved by wind rather than hand. A softness where the world could have made hardness--- gentle inclines that lead into the crinkle of something like joy, drawn downward from the place where breath breaks beneath a nose and rests in corners you could stay in forever. Atop the face of it, two orbs suspended in the sky of thoughts: storm-glass pools with iris-blue quiet. They hold weather within them, the kind that makes you stay inside and listen. On either side, the edges hum with punctured silver, as if tiny moons made orbit and decided to stay. They catch sound, the soft kind, the confessions of clouds, the questions of leaves. Above, chaos made beautiful: a crown of golden disarray, spun like a child’s dream of sea-foam, or wheat swaying in a wild wind. It invites you to reach out, to twine fingers in its undulation, to forget where yours end and it begins. Limbs extend like brushstrokes: elegant, unhurried, tipped in red, sometimes black, a statement or a secret depending on the day. They create, and destroy, and tremble, and give. They carry entire galaxies on their canvas: dots and loops and hidden myths, drawn in pen as if to say: this body, too, is cosmos. Adorning the surface: a loop of metal, a sigil of the ram, echoes of fire signs and fighting spirit, hanging like a question answered only in the way they carry the weight of the world without bitterness. And the shape, the true shape, is not in the body, though the body sings with it. It is in the accumulation of kindnesses, the way silence is held for the things too heavy to name. It is the tenderness offered to every unnoticed sorrow. The laugh that comes quick, wry and golden, sharp with knowing. It is flawed, gloriously. It stumbles on old bruises, tightens with doubt, carries angers like old coins, useless but kept. It weeps without sound. It envies. It forgets to be gentle sometimes, even with itself. But it tries. Always, it tries. I have learned its language, and its storms. Its rituals, its hesitations. The way it retreats before it trusts. The way it trusts when it thinks no one is looking. The shape of my love is not perfect, nor always soft. But it is real. And radiant. And reaching. And it is shaped, entirely, by him.

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Apr 7

Apr 7, 2026 at 4:37 AM UTC

PenumbraPoet

- The Shape of My Love -

It is not a thing easily traced. Not with line or logic, though there is symmetry, in quiet ways; the kind that lives in mirror-mist mornings or the way shadows stretch along collarbones. It bends between lithe and lean, as if carved by wind rather than hand. A softness where the world could have made hardness--- gentle inclines that lead into the crinkle of something like joy, drawn downward from the place where breath breaks beneath a nose and rests in corners you could stay in forever. Atop the face of it, two orbs suspended in the sky of thoughts: storm-glass pools with iris-blue quiet. They hold weather within them, the kind that makes you stay inside and listen. On either side, the edges hum with punctured silver, as if tiny moons made orbit and decided to stay. They catch sound, the soft kind, the confessions of clouds, the questions of leaves. Above, chaos made beautiful: a crown of golden disarray, spun like a child’s dream of sea-foam, or wheat swaying in a wild wind. It invites you to reach out, to twine fingers in its undulation, to forget where yours end and it begins. Limbs extend like brushstrokes: elegant, unhurried, tipped in red, sometimes black, a statement or a secret depending on the day. They create, and destroy, and tremble, and give. They carry entire galaxies on their canvas: dots and loops and hidden myths, drawn in pen as if to say: this body, too, is cosmos. Adorning the surface: a loop of metal, a sigil of the ram, echoes of fire signs and fighting spirit, hanging like a question answered only in the way they carry the weight of the world without bitterness. And the shape, the true shape, is not in the body, though the body sings with it. It is in the accumulation of kindnesses, the way silence is held for the things too heavy to name. It is the tenderness offered to every unnoticed sorrow. The laugh that comes quick, wry and golden, sharp with knowing. It is flawed, gloriously. It stumbles on old bruises, tightens with doubt, carries angers like old coins, useless but kept. It weeps without sound. It envies. It forgets to be gentle sometimes, even with itself. But it tries. Always, it tries. I have learned its language, and its storms. Its rituals, its hesitations. The way it retreats before it trusts. The way it trusts when it thinks no one is looking. The shape of my love is not perfect, nor always soft. But it is real. And radiant. And reaching. And it is shaped, entirely, by him.