She stands, embraced, in a vast field
where she can both lose and find herself,
where sunflowers lean, shoulder to shoulder,
faces tilted, ready to listen for things
she can’t bring herself to say—
a slender figure in white, barefoot
among the whispering stems.

The sky spills wide, endless and tender,
and she—just one small part of this silence—
listens to the earth keep quiet.
It is enough, she thinks to herself,
here, where questions scatter like seeds,
where the wind remembers to help carry
what can be let go—a cool hand
brushing her cheek, carrying the scent
of wild grass and the songs of unseen birds.

Beneath her feet, the soil breathes,
as if to say, stay—just stay.
She knows she’s small here—
but so is the sun’s last warmth,
so are the petals, one by one,
catching the day as it drifts away.

She could speak, let her thoughts
come out into the open,
but for now, this silence is enough.
A pause in her voice as the evening
hugs her like an old, trusted friend—
and she finds herself, somehow,
held gently in this quiet moment—
this, she admits, is plenty.

This is where silence blooms.

It doesn't stay neat—
nothing does.
Not the room.
Not the mind.
Not the feelings
I have for you.

I spill everything out—
ink, blood, tears—
whatever I hold
too tight.

Even the rain
trips over itself
but you call it
beautiful—
you always do.