I’m made up of moments
scribbled in the margins
of a worn out notebook.
These are the seeds sprinkled on recycled trees,
watered by tea-stained cups,
collections of my teardrops.
This is the hope drunk,
burning my throat
as silence drowns from the inside out,
the pen eating each forgotten line
with the fragility of shaking hands,
they hold these feelings as a gentle kiss
held still for a breath
to let the birds bless
this communion of sacred togetherness.
My spirit alive in the ink that spills,
once stalled, for now pours,
as I discover
there is no touch more intimate.