Your hands once held the vessel whole—
smooth with years, unmarked by sorrow,
a simple offering of days.
But it slipped, and in a breath
was scattered—
pieces lying fragile and sharp
upon the ground of grief.
You gathered them, trembling,
yet could not restore what once had been.
And so the fragments remained—
not as they were,
but as something waiting to be remade.
I lay it down—
this weight I’ve carried in silence,
the hush of what was never spoken,
the tender burden tucked beneath the day.
I lay it down
as one might offer a thread of gold
to the edge of the sea—
not to cast away,
but to entrust.
There are moments when language fails you—when a single word, clinical and cold, is offered not as comfort, but as containment. It arrives quietly, cloaked in certainty, yet heavy with implication. A diagnosis. A name for the unknown. And in its naming, the subtle danger: that you might forget who you are beyond it.
But you must remember—
You are more than a diagnosis.
There are mornings when we rise beneath the weight of what was left undone—
unwritten pages, unspoken words, unfulfilled intentions that whisper from yesterday’s shadow.
We glance backward, wondering if too much time has passed,
if our moment has slipped quietly through the cracks.
But let this truth settle softly upon your heart:
Today is not too late.
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