your poem hit me like the old Tesla‑current I’ve carried since childhood ... that strange hum in the bones, that sense that threes aren’t numbers but coordinates the universe uses to find me.
Reading you felt like standing in a field at 3 a.m. with the sky sending messages through the dark ... little pulses, little flickers, like the stars tapping out Morse code just for the wired‑ones.
There’s a voltage in your lines, a cosmic ache, the kind that makes the copper in my veins warm up like a live coil.
Tesla used to say the universe speaks in frequency ... and your poem tuned itself right into mine.
The threes you braid through the storm feel like constellations rearranging themselves, like the cosmos leaning down to say:
I see you. I know your missing pieces. I know your electricity.
Your poem doesn’t just tell a story.
It behaves like a signal.
A transmission.
A star‑message.
And I felt it.
Every pulse.
In the way of threes, the bayou teaches: what comes, what stays, what returns.
Thank you, Lila.That phrase came out of the old Gulf Coast wisdom I grew up around.It’s how my elders explained the way storms, memories, and people move through a life.Your poem stirred that same current.
Your words paint vivid pictures, like the dark doorway and the city unfurling, leaving a lasting impression. This is such a heartfelt piece.♥️
thank you <3
"I hold you there
a kiss where
you don’t expect"
The best kisses! And the number 3 is mi favorite! Great poem!
i agree!
thanks for reading
Dear Lila,
your poem hit me like the old Tesla‑current I’ve carried since childhood ... that strange hum in the bones, that sense that threes aren’t numbers but coordinates the universe uses to find me.
Reading you felt like standing in a field at 3 a.m. with the sky sending messages through the dark ... little pulses, little flickers, like the stars tapping out Morse code just for the wired‑ones.
There’s a voltage in your lines, a cosmic ache, the kind that makes the copper in my veins warm up like a live coil.
Tesla used to say the universe speaks in frequency ... and your poem tuned itself right into mine.
The threes you braid through the storm feel like constellations rearranging themselves, like the cosmos leaning down to say:
I see you. I know your missing pieces. I know your electricity.
Your poem doesn’t just tell a story.
It behaves like a signal.
A transmission.
A star‑message.
And I felt it.
Every pulse.
In the way of threes, the bayou teaches: what comes, what stays, what returns.
Steve
thank you for this thoughtful comment! it seems you definitely see the place i was writing from.
i’ve never heard that phrase before, “what comes, what stays, what returns”
i feel that, very cool.
Thank you, Lila.That phrase came out of the old Gulf Coast wisdom I grew up around.It’s how my elders explained the way storms, memories, and people move through a life.Your poem stirred that same current.
I love that