When I was cold,
my surface was so predictable.
An icy land allowed me
to be alone, distant, safe.

One day, the sun came,
and changed my frame.

The warm wind melted everything.
I became defenseless saltwater.

Untamed tears,
chanting my past lives
hidden in the drops
of who I was
and what I longed to mean.

With time, the calm waters
turned clear and soothing.

The particles of light shimmered silently
in the fractured space,
being so gentle, like a healing touch
lost in the dark past.

Now, when a strong wind blows again,
I'm so afraid of my untamed waters.
I don’t want to hurt,
I don’t want to be hurt.

Without shape, without frame,
I’m so strong and fragile
in perfect duality,
like a fierce ocean seen in fulfilled light.
I hear this endless symphony
calling me to the definitive solution.

She doesn't shout
her survival—
with practiced grace
she is born
from undoing—
walked through wreckage
and returned new—
a purple raven.

Her rising
isn't fire—
sometimes
it's the warmth
held
in her handwriting.

A lavender soul—
not loud
but a lasting kindness—
a scent
you didn't notice
until she was gone.

It's not a net—
it’s the compassion
of knowing
when to let
the question
go—
like a kite
too wise
for wind.