threads

✨ poetry corner ✨

We do not move to the same rhythms,
do not hum the same low tune.
They step forward; I step sideways—
and the space between balloons.

They built a world of level lines,
of certainties I can’t sustain.
I twist my thoughts into questions;
they press theirs firm into flame.

I wonder: Will they tire one day
of the puzzle I became?
Will the silence stretch so wide
that even love forgets my name?

But love is not a single thread,
not a line that frays and dies.
It is hands that learn new patterns,
it is quiet that replies.

It is not always harmony,
not always marching in time—
sometimes it’s a syncopation,
a pause that becomes a sign.

There is room inside the stillness,
room to listen, room to grow.
Even distance has its purpose;
even drifting waters flow.

So if they turn and walk away,
uncertain of what they see,
still — I will stay, and breathe,
and trust they'll find their way to me.

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