Can anything still be given, when the edges are worn down to dust? When the insides feel rusted through and the outside no longer resembles anything that once meant softness or care. When the hands don’t feel like hands anymore, just extensions of movement, burned-out tools repeating forgotten gestures. There was warmth once, long ago. Something bright that lived in the chest, moved in the fingertips, opened wide for the world. But now it's all bone and echoes. Cold that doesn’t hurt anymore, just stays. Silence that doesn’t surprise. The heart keeps going, not with hope or longing, but with the dull inertia of things that haven’t figured out how to stop. There is no clean thing left. No untouched part to offer. Everything has been used up, scraped thin. Kindness, when it comes, feels like imitation. A performance done without audience, out of memory, not meaning. Still, the reaching happens, like a muscle twitching after death. Not because there’s belief in it, but because stopp...
In a moment of words unspoken, a heart found its place.