The heart keeps a small, dim room
where the old sorrows sit like shy guests,
hands folded, unsure whether to rise
or remain in the hush they’ve grown fond of.
A quiet melody slips in through the door—
thin as dusk, soft as the worn hem of memory—
and suddenly the room breathes again.
The song does not heal.
It doesn’t promise to.
It simply pulls up a chair beside you,
lays its cool palm on your shoulder,
and whispers the truth you once hid
under the floorboards of your composure.
Every note is a lantern.
A trembling one, yes—
the kind that trembles not from weakness
but from the way old grief learns to glow
without needing applause.
You listen, and the years rearrange themselves
into a gentler geography.
Strange, how the ache becomes a friend
when shaped into sound—
how the wound, once given a rhythm,
stops biting and begins to hum.
You follow that hum into your own quiet depths,
and meet the version of you who once broke,
yet kept breathing with stubborn grace.
By the final refrain,
nothing is solved, nothing erased—
but the sorrow that once frightened you
is now sitting at your side,
leaning lightly against your arm,
as if to say:
I stayed with you through the hardest of nights.
Let me stay now too,
not as pain,
but as the soft echo
that proves you lived
and learned to carry your shadows
like a slow, familiar song.