a t͟e͟α͟r o𝓯 𝒍ove, written by a π’“π—ˆπ—†π–Ίπ—‡π—π—‚π–Ό π‘ π‘œπ‘’π‘™.

within the slow 𝒃𝒍𝒆𝒆𝒅 of yellow, where smoke unravels into silence, stands a soul too Ȣ͟eΥΌΝŸΙ–ΝŸer for this world. here, my poetry unfolds, not to be seen, but to be 𝒇elt β€” with closed eyes and open hearts.

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