Some poems weren’t written to be read.
They were written to be felt between breaths…
To brush against the soft part of you
that never stopped listening.
It began with the moon — and what it whispered when no one was listening.
Sometimes euphoria doesn’t shout — it slips in like a soft gasp in the dark.
She didn’t surrender all at once — she melted into it… whisper by whisper.
There are some moments you don’t remember — but your body does.
Every veil you lift reveals another layer of the you who’s been waiting…
Some magic is never lost — just quietly waiting for you to believe again.
Even alleys hold whispers — when you’re soft enough to hear them.
Not all echoes are hollow — some carry heaven’s hush.
Secrets don’t always hide — sometimes they lie still… waiting for touch.
Flow isn’t found — it’s remembered, in the sway of soft things.
The veil always thins at twilight — when your skin forgets to guard itself.
Night doesn’t fall. It opens… and waits for you to be touched.
Even silence has a flame — and it burns in the quietest places.
Midnight doesn’t speak in words — it pulses in longing.
Some calm isn’t quiet — it stirs just beneath the surface.
Some whispers echo across lifetimes… just for you.
Inside every bud, a yes that hasn’t bloomed yet.
What hides behind the mask isn’t a secret — it’s an invitation.
Some journeys don’t ask you to go anywhere — just to feel.
Every garden blooms again… once she remembers she was never meant to be pruned.
There are whispers that drape the sky… and wait for you to listen.
Or perhaps you’d rather wander… and let the next whisper choose you.
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