by Rohitash
before my tongue finds the name for sorrow.
A single thought moves faster than my voice —
and the room waits, patient and kind.
I keep a small room inside my notebook
where I can be clumsy and honest:
letters that fumble for meaning,
lines that take off their shoes and rest.
Happiness sits beside a bruise;
hope folds itself into a quiet corner.
I do not name them all — not yet —
I fold them into sentences instead.
Writing is the quiet lamp I borrow;
it shows the edges of what I hide.
When ink meets paper, a hush answers back —
a friend that never offers excuses.
Some memories are like loose stones in my pocket:
they rattle at crowds and sing at night.
Some days the weight is gentle, like sleep;
some nights it wakes me with a small, honest ache.
Maybe softness is not a fault —
maybe it is the quiet bravery of feeling.
Each sentence becomes a small bandage and a map:
it keeps me whole enough to continue.
Healing arrives in small letters, slowly:
not in sudden fireworks, but in steady light.
Today the page holds a piece of my worry;
tomorrow I will write another shape for it.
So I give my heart to ink — not to fix,
but to understand.
My words are not cures but companions;
they sit with me until the ache learns to breathe.
This is why I call it Ink of Embrace — because every line is a way to reach home.
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