The soft rustling of aloneness,
not an empty echo,
but a breathed in air.

Space to untangle,
threads of self,
spun and known.

No clutching hand required
to feel the pulse of the world,
the wind a soft touch,
the stars a silent knowing.

This self, rooted and whole,
offers not an empty vessel,
but a filled cup.

Love then, 
is a giving not a clinging, 
two solid shores 
meeting courteously, 
the open sea between, 
respected, understood, 
a bond freely chosen 
rather than desperately sought. 

For in that solitude,
the heart discovers its own song
To truly sing in harmony .

Filed under: 🜁 Self – tracing the inner landscapes of thought, feeling, and becoming.