The Quiet Thread.
I think of you,
not as a gale, not as a thunderclap,
but as the soft pull of the tide
curling against my ankles—
steady, relentless,
a quiet insistence.
In the mornings, when the gulls scatter
like paper blown across the sky,
I wonder if you wake to the same light,
if your breath, too, stirs
the pale curtains of an open window.
I walk the lanes of my life,
under canopies of ash and sycamore,
and there you are again—
the golden shadow,
the unspoken word
woven into the weave of the day.
Distance is nothing,
or everything.
And still, I carry you,
like a pebble tucked into my palm,
its weight a sweet ache,
its smoothness a promise—
of what, I do not know.
Only this:
that the world is larger now,
brimming with the sharp green scent
of longing,
and all the small, wild things
seem to know your name.
The Invisible String.
I have heard the physicists speak of it:
a particle split across galaxies,
still trembling
in unison,
as if some secret thread
binds the unseen halves of a whole.
What wonder to be tethered like that,
even in absence—
a connection that defies the yawning dark,
the quiet indifference of the stars.
And yet, here I am,
entangled in my own way,
orbiting the thought of you.
Your name rises unbidden,
like a signal caught in static,
a brief and brilliant pulse
before the silence reclaims itself.
Perhaps the universe
is only made of this:
pairs of longing,
scattered across distances
that can never be breached.
But still, when I close my eyes,
I swear I feel you stir—
a flicker, a ripple,
some echo of movement
on a plane I cannot see.
What is loneliness,
if not the measure of what was once whole?
What is love,
if not the hope
that even the vastness of space
cannot sever us entirely?
The Shape of Desire.
It begins in the shadows,
a flicker of something unnamed—
not shame, no,
but the tremble of recognition
in the marrow of the self.
Here is the body,
its language,
its wild, unspoken prayers—
the way skin answers touch
like fire answers wind.
We speak in signals,
in threads of silk,
in the soft bite of leather,
the rush of surrender
or control held taut,
a bowstring drawn tight.
This is not deviance;
it is the map of a secret country,
where consent is the compass
and trust, the unbroken path.
See how the body blooms
under its own peculiar sun,
how it turns to meet
what once felt unspeakable.
Desire wears so many faces,
but this one—
this tender, electric hunger—
is ours,
and it hums with a kind of truth
that only the brave can bear.
The Stillness of Frost.
Morning comes like a held breath—
the earth silvered and stunned,
each blade of grass laced with frost,
every branch etched in crystalline quiet.
The leaves lie where they fell,
their once-golden bodies curled inward,
as if mourning the sun’s departure.
They have become paper-thin whispers,
breaking under the weight of stillness.
But see how the frost claims them,
turns their decay to something luminous.
Even in death, they glisten,
their edges rimmed with cold fire,
each vein caught in fleeting brilliance.
There is a beauty in this,
in the way the world pauses
to honor its own ending.
The frost is not cruel,
only exacting,
its touch both sharp and soft—
a silence that humbles.
And beneath it all,
the soil waits,
alive with the secret work of beginnings.
The Stretch of Time.
What is a second,
but a story told by a clock—
tick by measured tick—
a steady hand sweeping across
a circle we believe to be fixed?
But we know better now.
The equations betray the lie:
Time bending, stretching
as speed becomes the master,
the denominator
pulling moments taut like thread.
Out there,
near the edges of stars,
or plunging into the silent heart of a black hole,
an hour would pass for you,
while for me, a century.
What is this distance but heartbreak,
measured in dilation,
measured in lives I’d never see you live?
Einstein whispers:
gravity, too, warps time’s river.
Space and time folded,
curved like a hand
that never quite touches the one it reaches for.
What does it mean
to feel the pull of another’s orbit,
to love in frames that cannot align?
Your seconds are galaxies away,
your minutes swell to years
as I wait, and wait,
knowing our meeting is both certain and fleeting.
Perhaps the equations hold the answer:
not to fight the stretch of time,
but to marvel at its gift—
the way it bends to make us infinite
for just one moment.
I love how poetry is a language to you, and that your poems have a cadence that even if I didn’t see your name next to them…I’d know they were yours.
Thank you for bringing poetry back into my every day.
Brilliant. All of them. ✨💛🖤