In my quiet moments, my life feels like a manuscript with pages torn out, stories left untold, and chapters waiting to be read aloud. I yearn to place it in my mother's hands, to let her fingers trace the lines of my joys and sorrows. I imagine her voice, calm and steady, reading me back to myself, weaving together the fragments of who I've become.
I long to find solace in her arms, like a traveler seeking refuge after years of wandering. Her embrace would be a sanctuary where my fears could thaw, where the warmth of her love could illuminate the shadows of my grief. I crave the sense of lightness that only her presence can bring, as if her touch could lift the weight that presses upon my chest.
In these moments, she is the beacon that guides me through the turmoil of my silence. I am a vessel adrift, battered by waves of longing, but her light cuts through the fog, leading me back to shore. To cry in her arms would be to let the depths of my emotions spill out, waves of pain and hope crashing against the shores of her understanding.
I need this. To feel her hands soothing my tangled thoughts like a gentle breeze through autumn leaves. To hear her heartbeat—a steady pulse that grounds me in a world that often feels uncertain. To know that even in my silence, she hears me, understands me, and accepts me.
♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡
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