April doesn’t Knock

April comes with wet palms and dirt under her nails.

She doesn’t knock

just slips in,

smelling like something

that almost died but didn’t.

Quite like you. 

You’re the kind of person

who cries overhearing a song

someone else is listening to

not the tune,

but the fact that it meant something to them

the same way it did to you.

You think trees might be watching.

You feel heavy when the sky turns orange.

You suspect there’s a deeper rhythm in things—the timing of encounters,

the sharpness of dreams,

the way a stranger’s eye catches yours and says, Yes, you too?

You don’t always believe in coincidence.

And neither do I.

The universe doesn’t toss dice.

It leaves messages

in echoes. in bruises. In people

who wound you

just enough

to turn you toward the person

you were always meant to become.