Small prayers written in ink.

She does not arrive,

she unfolds —

rose, gold, magenta,

the colour of being held.

Every line I draw

is a small forgiveness.

Pink is just rage

that learned how to bloom.

I painted her eyes last,

afraid she would see me.

She did.

She smiled anyway.

I am the candle and the wax.

I melt on purpose.

Light has to come from somewhere.