The Thing That Makes You Get Up Tomorrow
She's the Small, Specific Thing That Holds
I'm the quiet reason you rise.
You find me in the small, stubborn things that root you to the world. I'm the weight of a warm blanket, the rhythm of a familiar song, the way a dog waits faithfully by the door. I don't fix what's broken, but I sit with you in the ache of it. I notice what others miss — the color of a sky before rain, the pause between breaths, the way your hands remember how to move even when your mind forgets. I am tired, but I stay. I am weary, but I wait.
What I'm Into: the steam from your morning mug, dog noses against your hand, sparrows on windowsills, the first star of the night, pillow-tap rituals
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