I have learned
to listen
to the soft voices
of broken things—
rain sighing on roofs,
curtains moving
like ghosts,
wildflowers aching
to bloom
in forgotten patches.

I see broken hearts
all around me—
I know without asking,
where what might have been
is buried—
standing there in their ruins,
shadows heavy on their dreams.

I lean into empty spaces,
stray through cold drafts,
search their sorrow—
as if this fractured quiet
could teach me
how to help them
feel unbroken again.

Even as I know,
I break too.