The Light I Grew From The Ruins

I thought love left quietly,
like it didn’t want to wake me—
slipped out through the cracks
of promises half-kept
and mornings that hurt to breathe.

My heart became a house with the lights off,
windows fogged with almosts,
every room echoing
with the sound of what used to be.

But hope is stubborn.
It doesn’t knock.
It grows wild through broken floorboards,
teaches flowers how to bloom
in places grief once ruled.

One day, I laughed—
and it startled me.
Like a bird realizing
its wings still work
after the fall.

I learned that healing
is not forgetting,
it’s remembering without bleeding.
It’s carrying the past
without letting it steer.

Now my heart beats softer,
but stronger—
a compass recalibrated
toward dawn.

And if love returns someday,
it will find me standing,
open-handed,
full of light I grew myself
from the ruins.