You don’t always see it,
but you carry galaxies in your silence
entire constellations of grace
hiding behind your weary smile.
When the world forgets how to be gentle,
you still are.
Even when your voice trembles,
your heart holds steady
like a lighthouse built from poetry.
I wish you could see yourself
the way I do
not just as a writer of verses,
but as one who is a verse.
Living, breathing, aching
in the most beautiful of ways.
If I could, I’d press my hand to your chest
and say,
“You are allowed to rest.”
You are allowed to break sometimes,
and still be whole in my eyes.
You are not forgotten.
You are not alone.
And in the quiet corners of your hardest days,
you are still so deeply,
achingly,
lovable.