Somewhere, a door

I do not write of joy often

because joy has not sat with me lately.

Not the way sorrow has.

Not the way silence knows my name.

I have learned to shape poems from ache,

because ache shows up on time.

Ache never forgets to call.

My words have carried the weight of unspoken things

the kind of heavy that leaves no room for dancing metaphors or pastel skies.

But this is not all I am.

Even now, even here,

some small part of me is turning its face toward the sun it can’t yet feel.

A flicker.

A question.

A thread of light so faint I’m not sure it’s real

but I hold it anyway.

Because some nights, I want to write about laughter and mean it.

I want to write about a morning that doesn’t ask for anything back.

I want to write about touch that doesn’t burn, and love that doesn’t leave.

Not because it’s here

but because I still believe it could be.

So if you find my poems draped in shadow, know this

I am still reaching.

And somewhere, a door is opening

I cannot see yet.

But I am listening for its hinge.