My hands—numb,
yet somewhere, a warmth lingers,
shy as a rainbow half-hid by cloud,
soft as sunlight kissing raindrops.

It hums like earth
after the storm has wept,
a secret fragrance rising,
a reminder that even soaked ground
can breathe rebirth.

And in that moment,
I remember—
I am still me,
after everything.

I still write
on nights where the moon forgets to shine,
scripted in shadows,
in silence that hums louder than any light.

I still see tears
that never fall,
ghosts of rivers behind the eyes,
aching but unseen.

This night just doesn't go away—
it always takes a bite into my soul.
“Soul” is nearly half,
but “Hope” is always more.
The moon finally came to my window;
its light is whispering into my ears,
but my eyes—
they are hopeless.

Yet here I remain—
after storms, after silence,
after everything—
I am still here.
I am still me.
After everything.