missing someone
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Silence becomes its own language in the lingering glances, unfinished goodbyes, and distance that never teaches the heart to wander.
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A quiet hope that her name lives in someone else’s silences as often as theirs lives in hers.
A poetry library for the things that bruise us, the things that bloom anyway, and everything we become in between.
Silence becomes its own language in the lingering glances, unfinished goodbyes, and distance that never teaches the heart to wander.
A quiet hope that her name lives in someone else’s silences as often as theirs lives in hers.