She is poetry.

She is the poetry written by the Almighty Himself and I am the reader, falling for each line, not rushing, not skimming, but pausing where the words grow warm, where meaning leans close and whispers my name.

She is A metaphor and miracle, a language my heart somehow already knew.

Every chapter of her unfolds a new truth and I find myself underlining moments, I never want to forget.

I don’t try to edit her,

I don’t dare correct the rhythm of her becoming.

I read her as she is in awe, in surrender, in gratitude

because some poems aren’t meant to be understood,only felt.

And if I am lost in her verses,

let it be known this is the kind of lost that feels like home.