Fragile Petals

Petals unfold,

Delicate whispers,

Of a tender heart,

Fragile as morning dew.

​

Each breath, a sigh,

Of ephemeral grace,

Tracing memories,

In fragile whispers,

Echoes of rainbows.

​

Dreams woven gently,

Threads of moonlit sky,

Caress the night sky,

As shadows linger,

In whispers of stars.

​

Time’s gentle embrace,

Weaves fragile stories,

Whispered in silence,

Echoes of longing,

Lost in the sunrise.

​

In fragile whispers,

Petals unfurling,

Graceful and tender,

In delicate dreams.

​

Home

In the hollow of a whisper,

where shadows bloom like jasmine,

I find the ache of memory,

tangled in the scent of rain.

​

Here, the walls hold echoes

of my grandmother's lullabies,

and the kitchen exhales

the warmth of steamed rice.

​

Every doorway is a threshold

to the stories of my ancestors,

their voices woven into

the fabric of these rooms.

​

Outside, the street murmurs

with the footsteps of childhood,

the laughter of neighbors

like waves against the shore.

​

Home is the geography of longing,

mapped by the lines on my mother's hands,

the embrace of a language

I carry like a fragile bird.

​

In the quiet hours, I listen

to the pulse of this place,

how it hums with the rhythm

of heartbeats and histories.

​

Here, I am a constellation

of voices and silences,

threaded into the tapestry,

of belonging and becoming.

​

Ten Letters to the Sky

In the first, I wrote of aching,

each word a soft stitch in memory,

where light slipped through the cracks,

and silence held the weight of whispers.

​

The second spilled like ink on paper,

a confession of shadows I carried,

each line a pulse in the dark,

a reminder that night, too, is alive.

​

By the third, I searched for names,

ghosts who lingered like half-formed dreams,

their laughter echoing in hollow rooms,

a chorus of what could never be.

​

In the fourth, I traced the maps of loss,

the cartography of hope unraveling,

each tear a drop in the ocean,

the tide pulling back my resolve.

​

The fifth letter unfolded like petals,

the scent of sorrow, sweet and sharp,

where I found the ghosts of children,

their innocence flickering like streetlights.

​

In the sixth, I painted the horizon,

a canvas of what I had not said,

each brushstroke a promise unkept,

each color bleeding into the next.

​

The seventh whispered of freedom,

the kind that binds yet liberates,

a dance beneath the heavy moon,

where the earth and sky meet in longing.

​

By the eighth, I recited my fears,

a litany of all that I could be,

the weight of expectations pressing down,

crushing the smallness of my being.

​

In the ninth, I carved my name in ash,

a fleeting ember in a gust of wind,

the fragility of existence laid bare,

the art of letting go with grace.

​

The tenth was an offering to the stars,

a prayer stitched into the fabric of night,

where hope and despair intertwine softly,

and every breath becomes a quiet song.