Photo by Lawrence Makoona on Unsplash
Your mirror holds a folded note:
a heartbeat pressed to glass.
Stitch the fragments deemed flaws—
each crack a crescent moon.
No dirge for the lonely heart,
just your hymn’s steady hum.
Trace the pulse beneath your wrist—
where galaxies bloom, undone.
You’ve always been the compass.
About the Creator
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