I don’t want silence, I don’t want space,
I want sticky fingers and a messy place.
I want tiny shoes lined up by the door,
Giggles and whispers and toys on the floor.

I want late-night cuddles, a toddler’s embrace,
A partner to love, to grow old face to face.
To sit on a porch swing, gray hair in the breeze,
Our grandkids all laughing, climbing our knees.

So where is this life? Is it waiting for me?
Or will I just dream it and let it go free?

If only I could bottle time,
hold it still, make it mine.
Catch the days before they pass,
pour them slow like a hourglass.

Let me see—
there’s a deep conversation in thee,
a melody spun in hushed restraint,
a hunger veiled in lips so faint.

What do you believe?
Do shadows sigh where longing dwells,
where silence tolls like distant bells?
Do hearts still bleed in secret rites,
bound by hands that crave the night?

Let me see the hidden world within thee—
the velvet dark, the gilded ache,
the vow unbroken, the hands that take.
Unveil the echoes, unearth the deep,
let me taste what your soul dares to keep,
let me drown where your ghosts do weep.
Will you… will you let me see

When was the last time someone asked—
really asked—
“How are you?”
Not just the words,
not just a passing phrase
dropped in the space between hello and goodbye,
but a question that waited,
lingered,
held its breath for the truth.

When was the last time someone cared?
Not out of habit,
not out of duty,
but because your silence felt heavy,
because your laughter didn’t reach your eyes,
because they noticed
what you’ve been too busy to see.

And have you even asked yourself?
Past the noise,
past the rehearsed replies,
past the I’m fine that feels like a locked door.
Have you stood still long enough
to sit with the answer?

Let’s put the banter to one side.
Easier said than done, I know.
No need to overthink, no need to fix—
just breathe.
Just be.
And if no one else asks today,
then I will:

How are you, really?

Some things are left without a sound,
Yet still, they echo all around.
The things we hide beneath the skin,
Can show without a word or grin.

A glance can speak the things we fear,
A silence that the heart holds dear.
The unspoken truths remain alive,
In every pause, in every sigh.

No voice is needed to be true,
For silence whispers what we knew.
The quiet speaks the deepest plea,
A language only hearts can see.

The river carved the rocks with time,
Yet swore it left no trace behind.
The fire kissed the wood and air,
Then claimed it never once was there.

The storm may pass, the echoes thin,
Yet something lingers deep within.
Not seen, not named, but not erased—
Some marks were never meant to fade.

The sun still shines, the breeze still calls,
The rain still taps, the silence falls.
And when the moment feels just right,
The petals burst, a gift to sight.

The seed has slept, the world has spun,
The waiting game is nearly done.
The petals stretch, the colors gleam,
Awakening from winter’s dream.

It did not rush, it did not break,
It bloomed when time was sure to take.
A lesson whispered through the air—
Some things must wait to grow so fair.

The soil cradles the seed,
the seed cradles a secret.

It knows it can bloom.
Knows the sun will greet it,
the rain will nourish it,
the bees will come.

Yet still,
it waits.

Because blooming is not just survival—
it is choosing to step into the light.