between breaking and blooming

Something went missing. Maybe it was a name, a shape, or the sound of breathing right. These pages don't promise answers - just traces. A breadcrumb trail of metaphors, tea-stained thoughts, and things that were probably better left unsaid. Thirty poems, scattered like pieces of someone almost recognizable, if slightly unhinged. Some hurt. Some hum. Some just sit there, awkward and quiet, like they weren't sure if they were supposed to be here. Read them in silence or while avoiding responsibilities. Let them echo, or not. Either way, something happens. Probably. Hopefully. Honestly? Who knows.