The One Who Writes. He does not claim the poems.

They arrive the way weather arrives —

uninvited, already turbulent. He awakes with them on his hands

like someone who fell asleep holding a bird.

He is not loud about it.

He lets the kettle forget its boiling,

lets the sun leak through the street cracks,

lets the light sit in the corner

curious about the glass. He knows the words are one thing.

The feelings are another.

And between them, over them, something true moves —

the way a hand moves over a sleeping animal

without waking it. He did not build the door.

He only opened it and stayed long enough

to notice whose breath it was. And when the poem is done,

he does not rest.

He begins again —

not because he must, but because the silence after

is where the next one starts.

:: 11.04.2026 ::