The morning does not arrive all at once
it seeps through the edges of curtains,
rests softly on the corners of your thoughts,
and waits for you to notice
that something has begun again.
There is a kind of silence that only the heart can hear
not empty, not still,
but filled with the weight of all
we never found the words to say.
We walk through days like borrowed rooms,
touching nothing long enough to claim it,
yet leaving behind traces of ourselves in glances,
in pauses, in the spaces between goodbye and gone.
And still, the world insists on blooming
in cracks of stone,
in the tired smile of a stranger,
in the stubborn hope that refuses to loosen its grip.
Perhaps we were never meant to hold everything together,
only to carry what we can with trembling hands
and call it enough.
So when the night leans in again,
do not fear its quiet
for even in the unseen,
something is always gently becoming.