Water, they say, has no edges,
slips through the gaps of knuckles,
rests like a whisper in hollows,
finds its place wherever it lands.
Put it in a jar—it nods quietly,
becomes the language of containment.
Pour it on stone—it carves rebellion,
shaping patience into sharp defiance.
I wonder if we are born like this,
formless and infinite,
our ribs oceans that crash,
our spines rivers that flow.
How many cups have we filled by now,
how many times have we bent
to hold the weight of moments,
to mirror the vessels around us?
Today, I ask the water inside me
to remember its absence of borders,
to flow loud when it must,
crash hard when it needs.