In the quiet between heartbeats, these verses breathe—threads of chaos, stitched in stillness.Each line a mirror, cracked just enough to showyou the truth you’re too afraid to name. Wanderthrough bruised moons, lost names, and theweight of things unsaid. This isn’t poetry. It’s apulse. A soft rebellion. A map for the ones whofeel too much and say too little. Open thesepages, and don’t look for answers—look forechoes.
