Fine Lines

Your hands are ink-stained with intent,

Each thought revised, each moment spent.

You measure twice, and twice again,

You chase the edge with quiet pen.

You organize the mess of days,

Through systems, charts, and hidden ways.

A flaw to fix, a thread to stitch,

You smooth what others call a glitch.

Perfection’s grip both drives and traps

You solve the maze, then trace the gaps.

You serve in silence, mend what's frayed,

And hide the cost of love unpaid.

But still, you bloom in subtle ways

In checklists, gestures, words that stay.

No drama here, no grand parade

Just work well done, and debts well paid.

Behind your calm, a sacred fire

A slow, exacting, true desire.