I write poetry the way some people breathe — without question, out of need. My poems bloom from small, quiet places: a fallen petal, a lingering look, the silence between pages. Flowers, books, and the ache of being alive are the soil of my work.

I’m endlessly moved by the written word — its power to wound gently and heal deeply. I believe, like Han Kang wrote in The White Book, that “words breathe with pain.” But they also breathe with love. My poems attempt to hold both.

This page is a collection of everything: love and longing, stillness and wildness, dust and bloom. I see poetry in everything — a broken teacup, a memory misremembered, a face in the crowd. I try to catch the fleeting and press it between pages.

Fyodor Dostoevsky once said, “Beauty will save the world.” I believe that. And I believe beauty is often found in the quiet things we overlook — like the way a flower leans toward the light, or how a poem can lean into your soul.

This is not just a page of poems — it’s a garden of moments, a love letter to poetry itself.