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 A fracture in the quiet of the bone,

A sudden weight that shifts the earth below.

The spirit sits inside the dark alone,

And wonders why the healing is so slow.

Each morning brings the same familiar ache,

The heavy gravity of pulling through.

It takes a day to mend a single break,

It takes a year to make the old look new.

The clock becomes a cruel and steady hand,

That counts the minutes dripping into space.

We map the desert of this hollow land,

And learn to walk at such a painful pace.

But fabric knits beneath the hidden skin,

And roots grow deep beneath the frozen snow.

The quiet work of light can now begin,

However long the mending takes to go.

The Me that Remains from 1981 to 2026

 The me that remains

is quieter now—
not gone, not broken,
just… distilled.

Like rain that once fell loudly
against the roof of every moment,
now gathered
into something still enough to hold.

I used to be all edges—
sharp with wanting,
bright with noise,
spilling over every silence.

But time—
patient, unannounced—
wore me softer.

Not smaller.
Never smaller.
Just truer in shape.

The me that remains
does not chase every echo.
Does not beg the world
to answer back.

I have learned
how to sit with absence
without calling it emptiness.

There are pieces of me
I had to let drift—
versions that only knew
how to survive
by becoming everything at once.

I thank them.
I release them.

What’s left
is not what I lost—
it’s what endured.

A steady pulse.
A voice that doesn’t tremble
when it says
“I am still here.”

And that—
after all the leaving,
all the breaking,
all the becoming—

is enough.