Things that bloom inside

Something grows upon an empty frame.It stretches like tendrils,awakening what was once cold and still.A gaze travels inward—through knots, hollows, and textures that almost breathe.It might be the trace of a longing,or the hardened silence of unspoken grief.What expands soon collapses,and in its aftermath, something harmless, something tender, begins to glow.It feels like an end, yet also like the beginning.Hollow, but never empty.What was within—only you can say.But perhaps,there were good things.