I bleed words out of my heart again,
a slow, rhythmic pulse of syllables,
spilling onto the pristine canvas of paper.
Each drop, a testament to the ache within,
as hope pushes the edge of my chest again.
I write in the language of longing,
a tender melody of ink and pain,
weaving verses like delicate tapestries
that whisper of love's transient touch.
......
I bleed words out of my heart again,
a slow, rhythmic pulse of syllables,
spilling onto the pristine canvas of paper.
Each drop, a testament to the ache within,
as hope pushes the edge of my chest again.
I write in the language of longing,
a tender melody of ink and pain,
weaving verses like delicate tapestries
that whisper of love's transient touch.
......