Somehow, still..
There is a kind of heartbreak
that has nothing to do with love leaving.
It is waking up
and realizing you’ve become a stranger
to the person who used to believe
tomorrow would feel different.
I keep waiting for someone to tell me
this isn’t real
that grief can disguise itself as breathing,
that surviving isn’t the same
as living.
But morning keeps arriving.
So do I.
Not because I’m brave.
Not because I’m hopeful.
Simply because there are hands
that still reach for mine,
eyes too young to understand
why some people disappear.
I carry my brokenness quietly now.
Not because it weighs less,
but because everyone has grown accustomed
to seeing me carry it.
People call it strength.
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They don’t see the cracks
splitting wider beneath the surface,
or how every smile
is stitched together
with the last thread I have left.
I’m tired.
Not the kind of tired
that sleep can touch.
The kind that settles
deep in the bones,
where even hope
has to fight for room.
Still,
I get up.
I pack lunches.
I answer messages.
I laugh when laughter is expected.
And every night,
I wonder how something can keep beating
long after it’s convinced
it has shattered.
Maybe that’s what hearts do.
They don’t always heal.
Sometimes,
they simply keep breaking –
and somehow,
they keep beating anyway.
