Every poem here is a bottle on the shelf, a leaf in a notebook, a voice reaching across the quiet.

We have gathered them from the corners of bedrooms, from train carriages at dusk, from the hollow space between grief and healing. They come from poets who have wrestled with language until it became soft enough to hold, sharp enough to pierce, or gentle enough to rest inside.

This is not an anthology to be read in one sitting. It is a cabinet you can return to whenever the world tilts.

You will not find a cure here. But you may find a companion for the night.