It doesn’t happen with thunder.
It comes softly,
like rain after years of drought.
The body breaks before the spirit admits it’s tired.
And when the last lie finally falls away,
there’s only breath,
and salt,
and shaking hands.
Tears don’t ask permission.
They come when the weight becomes language.
When all the bottles,
all the nights,
all the noise
lose their power to numb.
And in that quiet,
the one I used to run from,
I find something small,
something true.
A little room inside the wreckage
where life might grow again.
Add comment
Comments