Unseen hand

I hold her smile behind my eyes. Then break apart, desensitized.

Everything lives and everything dies; it’s why we have to ask the “why’s”.

Why stars ignite and rivers bend. Why does every journey have to end?

Why rules exist, and how they break. What is real, and what is fake?

Some days I float, some days I sink. Her voice fades slowly when I blink.

She’s everywhere and nowhere too, in folded clothes and morning dew.

I speak to her in quiet ways, in half-formed thoughts every day.

She answers back in subtle signs, in softened light and the smell of limes.

Love doesn't leave—but it can hide, behind the tears I haven't cried.

I’m learning grief is not a wall. It breathes, it breaks, it learns to crawl.

It sleeps beside me in my bed. It paints old memories in my head.

It doesn’t end; it just transforms. It shifts and bends, it softens storms.

Some days it hums beneath my skin, a quiet ache I carry in.

It waits in places I once knew, in songs she sang, in shades of blue.

It rises with the morning light, then tucks me in at night.

It’s woven into all I am—her love, my strength, an unseen hand.