Growth

Growth

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

between fingers,

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.

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