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That was the last hand of hers I held

before she whispered,

“Don’t leave me.”

And somewhere between her tears

and my silence,

love stood there

not knowing whose side to take.

 

She couldn’t hold back her emotions.

I couldn’t find the words.

 

That’s the thing about tears 

people say they care,

but most only visit pain

the way you visit bad weather.

 

They stand in your storm a moment,

say, “poor soul,”

then walk back into sunlight

like they were never even wet.

 

And your sadness becomes small talk.

A headline that fades by morning.

Something to mention over coffee

and then forget.

 

For a day, your pain matters.

 

Then it evaporates.

 

Gone 

while you’re still standing there

holding the ache

long after everyone’s left the room.

 

Pain changes you quietly.

 

Your heart keeps taking it in,

tear after tear,

until it becomes softer

than you ever meant for it to be.

 

You try to build walls.

You really do.

 

But somewhere, always,

you leave a window cracked 

still hoping someone will look in

and actually see you.

 

Some do.

 

Most don’t.

 

Most come smiling,

but they’re measuring 

how much of you they can take

before you notice

you’ve gone missing.

 

And slowly,

you find yourself alone in a crowd.

 

Breathing.

But unseen.

 

Like a gem sitting quietly on a riverbank

among a thousand ordinary stones,

wondering why no one ever stops.

 

 

Maybe that’s the quiet tragedy of people like you 

 

spending years believing you’re common

because no one slowed down long enough

to see what you’re made of.

 

But the river knows.

Water knows.

Every tear that found you

was shaping something.

 

One day,

someone will pick you up gently,

hold you to the light,

and understand

 

you were never ordinary.

 

You were being made

the whole time.

 

Quietly.

Patiently.

 

By water, and tears, and everything that hurt.