They spiral out sometimes—
                not clean,
              not careful,

                just true.

Just words.

A good line
    chased down another,
    until the whole thing curved

    into something worth keeping.

I spent hours
    spinning them literal—
    command lines and image tools,
    trial and error,

    bash scripts, bad words—
    until it finally clicked.

It had to be solid—
    not just felt, _seen_.

    Proof I hadn't imagined…
    all the ways these lines
    meant more than just me.

Finally: there it was—
    something I could actually see.

Repeatable.

Sharable.

Weirdly beautiful.

I guess I wanted
    her to see it the way I did:

    the way the words chased each other into shape.

The way thought
    became structure…

    without asking permission.

Still not poems.

Still not art.

But something.

Something she’d recognize as mine.