Open Stories

There is a silence in you, Not empty—echoing. Like the hush before a thunderstorm The wind stills And the trees listen. I see it in the way you move— Too careful. Too contained. A choreography of caution That hides the wildness beneath. There’s a secret you won’t name, Not even in the dark. A want so deep it coils in your belly, Sleepless and waiting. Not for anyone— But for someone who won’t flinch When it rises. You don...