We are not separate islands,
though we build our shores like fortresses —
every wall a story
about the last time we let the tide in.
But connection finds its way
the way roots do beneath concrete,
patient, persistent,
asking nothing but a crack of light.
It lives in the pause before someone speaks,
in the shared laugh that needs no translation,
in the hand that reaches
not to fix, but to say —
*I am here. I see you.*
We are made of borrowed light —
every word we carry
was first spoken by someone who loved us.
Every scar was shaped by someone
who came close enough to matter.
Distance is an illusion
dressed up in miles and years.
The people who changed us
never really leave.
They become the way we listen,
the way we hold a door,
the way we name the stars.
So reach.
Let yourself be
unreasonably tender,
dangerously open.
The thread between us
is stronger than you think —
it has survived silence,
it has outlasted goodbye,
it is pulling,
even now,
even now.
Subject: This poetry and the images used have been generated by machines driven by human thought of longingness and connection with oneself.
Good Day
