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.
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