The Smallest Opening

There are days
when the heart feels less like an organ
and more like a room
where every echo remembers
someone who has already left.

We become experts at carrying invisible things

the words we never spoke,
the doors we never opened,
the versions of ourselves
that quietly slipped away.

Yet the remarkable thing about being human
is not that we never break.

It is that we keep discovering
how to bloom through the cracks.

A tree does not apologize
for the branches the storm has taken.
It simply teaches the sky
a new shape.

Perhaps healing was never meant
to erase the wound.

Perhaps it was always meant
to prove that tenderness
can survive beside it.

So if today feels heavier
than your hands know how to hold, rest.

Not because you are giving up,
but because even the sunrise
waits for its own hour.

One morning, without permission,
hope will return
not as thunder,

but as birdsong.

Not loud enough
to silence the darkness,

only gentle enough
to remind you

that light has always known
how to find the smallest opening,

and that somehow,

against every expectation,

it has learned your name.