A restrained free-verse poem about guarded contact, need, and the small courage of not turning away.
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You reach, and I go still. Not fear— the older thing: the body learning how quickly need mistakes an open hand for permission. I lower my head to the quiet that keeps me here. Your hand stops before it asks for more than I give. For one breath, stillness is not surrender. Between us, water— loosening my face before it gives it back. You do not touch me. I do not turn away.
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A rain-dark underpass poem about misread permission, silence and the petrol-coloured reflection left beneath a bridge.
A reflective free-verse poem about leaving, inherited commands, fear, and the room that opens when obedience falls quiet.
A free-verse poem of ash, rain, and a stubborn seed, where survival begins not through pardon but through green forcing its way upward.
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