Morning water, unboiled,
a reminder to ask before taking,
before sipping from what is shared.
The clock whispered too late,
though I had already risen,
bathed, eaten,
and stepped into the doorway
where she stood, watching,
sending me off in silence.
Bus wheels carried me forward.
A stranger slammed a door,
another gaze lingered too long.
Between the lift and the stairs,
an old woman in her chair descended,
guided by steady hands.
And on my phone —
a wandering insect,
as if to test my patience.
I blew it away,
watched it fall like an unwanted thought.
On the shuttle bus,
sadness pressed close.
I almost gave in,
until a voice inside whispered:
don’t be like this.
So I wrote instead—
Dear me,
I am sorry for shouting
and for turning storms
into your shelter.
I am here,
and I will learn
to love you better.
By midday, sweetness arrived:
two candies in my palm,
a piece of chocolate melting slow.
Kind words drifted across the screen,
gentle voices saying
glad you’re okay.
And somewhere in the quiet scroll,
I saw the number —
6.2k souls who glanced at my work,
looked but did not follow.
Still, they saw.
And maybe that is enough,
for even unseen petals
can perfume the air.
Fifty-nine days
until my birthday.
Fifty-nine days
to practice gentleness,
to speak softly within,
to balance the heavy
with the light.
