I did not ask for this—
this bruise of wanting blooming under my ribs.
You came like winter sun:
too soft to trust, too sharp to turn away.
I kept my silence folded
like a letter I’d never send—
and yet you read me,
one pulse, one breath at a time.
Now, my thoughts are ash-colored birds
nesting in your name.
I am undone—
not loudly, but with the hush of snow falling
on a house already burning.