She rises before the sun,
already tangled in the weight of her day,
her body tired but her mind sharp,
a quiet hunger that drives her forward.
The hours slip by,
but it’s never enough—
tasks pile up, demands echo,
and she moves through it all,
as if the world can’t see
how much she’s giving,
how much she’s carrying alone.

Her fingers type with urgency,
quick and precise,
but it’s not the kind of touch
that feels good on her skin.
She longs for the slow,
the deliberate,
the moments that aren’t dictated
by deadlines or expectations.

There’s a fire in her eyes
when she finally stops,
when the world slows down
and she can breathe for a second.
And in the quiet,
she wonders what it would feel like
to let someone in,
to feel their touch
not in the rush of the day,
but in the stillness of a night
where nothing pulls her away,
where it’s just her and them
and a moment that belongs only to her.