The Poem That Waited for Him

The poem didn’t come to him suddenly.

It waited.

In unfinished thoughts,

in moments he ignored,

in feelings he almost understood.

It stayed in the spaces between his days,

quiet but present.

He thought he needed the right mood,

the right time,

the right words.

But the poem needed none of that.

It only needed him to stop running.

So one night, he sat in silence

and let the words arrive as they were—

not perfect, not complete,

but real.

And in that moment,

he realized—

The poem was never lost.

He was just not ready to meet it