It Was at a Tender Age
not in verses, but in silences.
In the way grief sat beside me,
quiet and uninvited,
while the world went on laughing in another room.
It crept in through the cracks of things left unsaid,
settled in my chest
like dust that never stirred
until I began to write.
It wasn’t rhymes that found me first,
but moments
the smell of rain on dry ground,
a hand pulling away too soon,
a name I couldn’t forget.
Poetry didn’t ask to be understood.
It only asked to be felt.
And so I let it build a home
in the softest parts of me.
Now,
even silence hums in stanzas.
And everything I feel
has found a way
to say itself.
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