Lioraé

Where warmth pools and rises without reason, where the tide lingers before turning inward again.

Where softness is not collapse, but the root of strength. The pause before opening.

The slow sway that isn’t meant for anyone watching.

The pulse that does not need a reason to continue.

The hush of silk over still skin.

Warmth rising beneath the horizon of my breath.

The cool trust of air against my inner edge—a quiet curve where fullness begins.

Even unopened petals carry the fullness of spring.

I do not need to know why I begin to hum.

No story here. No mirror. Only sensation returning home.

A slow nectar thickens behind stillness.

Sap stirs in the dark—unseen, yet sure.

I walk without moving. I feel without being asked.

I become, again, the one who never left. In the hush between thoughts, rhythm returns.

Not to show. Not to offer. Only to be.

The tenderness of creation, whether birthed or held, stirs within me like rivers of light.

The weight of warmth gathers at my root, not urgent—just ready.

The quiet joy that hums, rooted in my own pulse, spills gently into the world.

And the world, without asking, breathes in my presence.