Dipti… this one hit like a quiet lightning strike.

The way you hold both the wreckage and the small flame that survived it — it’s raw, and brave, and impossibly tender. Your lines feel like someone sorting through their own ruins with steady hands, not to glorify the breaking, but to honor what refused to die.

And those last images — the pilot light, the two warm hands — they stay with you long after the poem ends. There’s so much strength here, even in the softness.

Beautifully done, truly.