you are not the storm,
you are the sky after it.
the quiet blue stretched too thin
where the sun forgets to burn.
your breath is a hymn
not sung, but remembered.
by wind that has touched
the edge of broken things.
you walk like a secret
the world doesn’t deserve to know.
bones made of bruised velvet,
eyes like dusk trying not to fall.
there’s something holy
about the way you carry silence,
not as burden,
but as a crown of thorns.
you’ve learned to wear like pearls.
and maybe,
you’ll never call it healing.
but still,
you rise,
without asking the ground for permission.
you,
beautiful tragedy,
are not what happened.
you are what remains.
and that,
is the most powerful kind of love.