The soul
is not skin,
not bone,
not something you can point to
or name.

It’s the ache behind the smile,
the tremble before truth,
the way your chest tightens
when a song knows you
better than you know yourself.

It’s memory,
tied in threads of scent and sound.
It’s grief that lingers
in a room long emptied,
and love
you still feel
for someone long gone.

It carries every version
of who you’ve been.
the child who dreamed,
the teen who feared,
the adult still learning
what it means to be whole.

The soul bruises quietly.
It celebrates in silence.
It’s heavy with things
no one else sees,
but it still shines
in your laugh,
in your quiet kindness,
in the way you keep going.

And maybe that’s the soul’s secret:
it can break
and still glow
like something holy
trying
to make this life
mean something.