Maybe her dress is a little wrinkled,
and her hair is always out of place…

Maybe she doesn't need to seek perfection,
to live her life with grace.

Maybe she gets a bit tired,
and her thoughts lose their speed…

Maybe she gives herself time,
to prioritize her basic needs.

Maybe her heart beats to a rhythm,
that only her wit can hear…

Maybe her strength lies in her softness,
and her courage in her tears.

Maybe some days,
she’s swallowed the sun in her smile…

And maybe other days,
she allows herself to fall apart for a while.

Maybe she knows,
of all the love life can give.

And maybe she knows,
that a life without love
is not one that has been lived.

Grief isn’t always loud.

Sometimes it sits beside you
like an old friend
who doesn’t need to talk
to be heard.

Sometimes,
grief is not about what happened.
It’s about what didn’t.

The goodbye you never said.
The hug you never got.
The feeling of walking into a room
and being known
without having to explain a thing.

You carry it
in the way you walk,
in the way your playlist has changed,
in the way you write poems
because there’s nowhere else
to put the ache.

But even this—
this quiet grief—
is a form of love.
A way of saying
“That life mattered.
That version of me still exists.
I remember.”

And remembering
is brave.