.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪

What lasts is not what stands still, but what is allowed to transform. Creation isn’t about locking something down, preserving it in stone. It’s about making something that can evolve, that can be touched, reimagined, and passed along to others. It’s a ripple, not a monument. A thread woven into the fabric of the present, never needing to be permanent because it already has meaning in the moment it exists.

Let the world blur past itself

in pursuit of something shinier.

I am not theirs to pace.

I choose the slow bloom—

the honeyed hour

when light spills through lace curtains,

when my breath deepens

just to savor the way

jasmine lingers in the air.

Time is not a demand,

but a lover with open palms.

She waits while I undress

my urgency,

while I wrap myself in the silk

of here

and now.

I will not suspend my joy

like laundry in the wind,

waiting for some perfect sky.

I want joy

warm and ready—

baked into my mornings,

woven into the skin of ordinary days.

I let my feet move

like prayer on pavement,

like poetry across soil.

I let love find me

with my hands in the earth,

my lips soft with laughter.

Knowing that

what’s mine will know how to arrive

without being summoned.

And I—

I will be ready,

not because I rushed,

but because I stayed

to the hush of morning light slanting through gauze curtains,

to the sound of a language i was not born into

but feel in my bones

as if i dreamed it first—

round, warm syllables that slide over my tongue

like the skin of ripe fruit.

i belong to steam curling from a clay mug,

to lemon balm on the windowsill,

to hands that do not rush to hold

but wait, open,

as if they trust the world will meet them.

i belong to rooms where grief and joy sit at the same table,

where no one is asked to smile

but someone always does,

gently.

to the scent of sea salt in cotton sheets,

and the breath between one sentence and the next—

that holy pause,

where all things are still possible.

i belong to softness

not because i chose it,

but because it kept choosing me—

in the quiet,

in the broken places,

in every version of myself

that trembled and stayed anyway.

and now,

i do not run from the ache.

i let it wash me—

like ocean,

like language,