The collection
Later he spoke truthfully about grief, and the walls themselves seemed embarrassed for him. Someone coughed. Someone closed a ledger. No one looked him in the eye again. After that he learned procedure. A man must drag himself through life without allowing the chains to make noise. He must bleed internally. He must decay in…
Days passed without measure. I stopped counting them. The noise in my head did not leave at once. It fought. It circled back. It tried to make itself important. But the woods are patient. They do not argue. They outlast.
Do not think I exaggerate. Love is exact. It measures the distance between two chairs, counts the seconds between one message and the next, knows precisely how much silence a heart can carry before it breaks like a plate dropped on a kitchen floor.
A man fights many things in his life, but the river inside him is not one to break with fists. You watch it. You learn the shape of its current. You drink your coffee and breathe.
Now the mirror shows a stranger I recognize. The same eyes, but deeper. The same hands, but steadier.
Today I thank the simple things: the spoon that rests, the milk that bends into silk, the sun leaning gently through the window.
I smile for you, because love, when it’s true, is stronger than loud thunder, gentler than falling leaves, patient as the deep roots, clinging to mountain’s dark heart.
Another sunrise. Another chance to get it right. And I will. Because the fire’s back – quiet, controlled, mine.
Moving on is not forgetting – it’s letting the ashes settle, letting the wind carry what remains, while we walk forward, hands empty, but hearts open for the fires yet to come.