I chase sunsets because they whisper the sky’s breath, but I can hear your sun’s heat as a drumbeat on a wall, turning it into a quiet canvas. My poems are like leaves—soft, delicate, but they will flutter, not burn, through the next storm. They’ll cling to the wind and dance in the rain, just waiting for a moment to bloom again.

I hear you, and I’ll weave sharper lines that still sigh like leaves, ready to weather the storm and still bloom. The wind won’t bruise them—just let them carry a bit more fire.

I’ll sharpen each stanza like a blade, letting fire and wind carve verses that stay true, but never cut the heart that writes them.