Sarah Lynne Ford

It’s a strange kind of ache, this wanting.

Not sharp, not loud—just steady,

like a low tide that never quite comes in.

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Breathe…

Every inhale claws at my chest,

like air has turned to stone.

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You are the ache behind the smile,

the storm behind calm hands—

soft-spoken strength

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Don’t rush me.

I want you to earn every inch.

I’m not something you take—

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