Postcard for the Quiet Hurts

A place arrives like a letter,
soft-edged,
addressed to the parts of you
that never learned how to speak.

Snow falls without urgency,
covering what was left unsaid,
not to erase,
but to hold it gently in white.

A bench waits,
empty in the way that invites sitting,
in the way that understands
you may need time
before you arrive fully.

“I hope you heal…”
the words drift like weather
not demanding,
not loud,
just present enough
to be believed one day.

Somewhere between silence
and small color,
the heart remembers
how to rest.

Object number

088.051