Apr 8
The sky does not always thunder,
some days it only hums—
a low lullaby in pastel blue,
resting on your windowpane.
There is beauty in stillness,
like dew-beads clinging to a spider’s thread,
fragile, glimmering, unseen
but alive.
You are not late.
The garden blooms when it’s ready—
not a moment before.
Even the moon takes its time
to become full.
So let yourself be tired.
Let the ache sit beside you.
It will not stay forever.
It knows you’re learning,
and learning is slow.
One day, the breath in your chest
will feel like enough.
The dawn will no longer feel
like a beginning you’ve missed.
You’ll sip morning light
and say,
I made it.
Not with fanfare,
not with fire—
but with soft feet
on soft earth,
and a heart that chose
to stay.
some days it only hums—
a low lullaby in pastel blue,
resting on your windowpane.
There is beauty in stillness,
like dew-beads clinging to a spider’s thread,
fragile, glimmering, unseen
but alive.
You are not late.
The garden blooms when it’s ready—
not a moment before.
Even the moon takes its time
to become full.
So let yourself be tired.
Let the ache sit beside you.
It will not stay forever.
It knows you’re learning,
and learning is slow.
One day, the breath in your chest
will feel like enough.
The dawn will no longer feel
like a beginning you’ve missed.
You’ll sip morning light
and say,
I made it.
Not with fanfare,
not with fire—
but with soft feet
on soft earth,
and a heart that chose
to stay.
everything will be okay, someday.
(18/F)
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