hello poetry
rustling beneath an unwritten page,
a quiver begins—soft as rain on glass.
Words lean toward each other,
testing air between syllables,
like strangers exchanging glances
before they dare to speak.
Here, ink is not just ink—
it is breath, a slow unfurling of a thought
that has waited years for its own voice.
Every line a bridge, every pause a doorway.
And when the poem finds you,
it does not knock—
it slips into your chest,
settles beside your heartbeat,
and ripples outward from it.
.