Some days, I have to search for them —
the quiet things that keep me here.
The way sunsets melt into bruised gold,
how dawn stretches across the sky each morning.
Dandelions breaking through concrete,
wild and stubborn enough to live.
Rain against the window,
tracing gentle paths.
Candlelight trembling in dark rooms,
the moon watching without judgement,
streetlights painting halos
on the roads I walk alone.
Someone remembering my favorite song.
Someone saving the last piece.
Fingers brushing
when passing something small —
a spark too brief to name.
Laughter bursting from nothing,
the silence after,
soft, whole, safe.
A head resting on my shoulder,
a sweater that still smells like them,
a smile, small and downward,
but means I’m happy you’re here.
Handwritten notes tucked into books,
pages creased from being loved,
graffiti hearts everywhere I look—
proof someone was here
and wanted to be known.
I collect them all —
the small, gentle things,
the fleeting, quiet things
that whisper don’t go.
And even when I can’t see the light,
I hold them close,
hoping one day
they’ll be enough.
Mar 30
Mar 30, 2026 at 8:12 PM UTC
Some days, I have to search for them —
the quiet things that keep me here.
The way sunsets melt into bruised gold,
how dawn stretches across the sky each morning.
Dandelions breaking through concrete,
wild and stubborn enough to live.
Rain against the window,
tracing gentle paths.
Candlelight trembling in dark rooms,
the moon watching without judgement,
streetlights painting halos
on the roads I walk alone.
Someone remembering my favorite song.
Someone saving the last piece.
Fingers brushing
when passing something small —
a spark too brief to name.
Laughter bursting from nothing,
the silence after,
soft, whole, safe.
A head resting on my shoulder,
a sweater that still smells like them,
a smile, small and downward,
but means I’m happy you’re here.
Handwritten notes tucked into books,
pages creased from being loved,
graffiti hearts everywhere I look—
proof someone was here
and wanted to be known.
I collect them all —
the small, gentle things,
the fleeting, quiet things
that whisper don’t go.
And even when I can’t see the light,
I hold them close,
hoping one day
they’ll be enough.
Some days, you have to collect small reasons to stay.
