The Weight of Ordinary Days
Do not ask me
whether your smile can quiet a room.
Ask instead
what survives after the applause of first impressions,
when love is no longer a visitor
but a permanent address.
There comes a morning
when romance forgets its rehearsed lines,
when beauty is too tired to defend itself,
when life arrives with unpaid bills,
closed doors,
and news that changes the shape of breathing.
That is where a heart
reveals its native language.
Not in anniversaries.
Not in photographs.
But in the silence
after disappointment has spoken.
I have learnt
that character is a slow-burning fire.
It is the hand
that does not become a fist
because the day was cruel.
It is the voice
that refuses to wound
simply because it has been wounded.
It is choosing kindness
when no one is watching,
and choosing truth
when lies would be easier to carry.
We spend too much of our youth
falling in love with sunlight,
forgetting
that every home
must also survive the rain.
I no longer pray
for a love that feels like lightning.
Lightning is beautiful,
but it has never built a house.
Give me the soul
that knows how to remain
when laughter grows quiet,
when dreams arrive late,
when grief sits at the table,
and still,
without ceremony,
chooses to pour another cup of tea.
For forever
has never been written
by those who loved each other
only in spring.
It belongs
to those who learnt
the sacred work
of staying gentle
through winter.
I
The Weight of Ordinary Days Do not ask me whether your smile can quiet a…
