There are days
when even birds don’t believe in flight.
They curl inward,
as if sheltering
something too delicate
to name.
A moon appears—
not as a guide,
but a witness.
Watching with quiet disapproval
how we falter
under weightless things:
a number,
a silence,
a delay that blooms into despair.
No one sees the way
solitude braids itself
into the body.
It walks with us,
a shadow with no shoes,
a lullaby that never learned to soothe.
And still—
we make marks.
Faint, trembling strokes
across a black sky.
A whisper of defiance.
A dance with no music.
Because what else is there to do
but paint
and trust
that somewhere,
someone
is waiting
to understand?
Felt, Paint & Reflection 