hello poetry

 

Beneath the rustling of an unwritten page,

a quiver begins—soft as rain on glass.

Words lean toward each other,

testing the air between syllables,

like strangers exchanging glances

before they dare to speak.

 

Here, the ink is not just ink—

it is breath, the 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.