K

I don’t know how to fill the waking hours.

They arrive without instruction.

Morning asks for movement,

for purpose,

but all I have is breath

and the careful work of not breaking.

So I gather myself slowly—

a cup of water,

a song to listen,

a room left quiet,

the light learning how to enter.

Time brings no comfort.

It only watches.

It keeps moving even when I don’t,

even when I am busy stitching myself together

with habits that look like strength.

Some hours I wait for nothing,

just the feeling that I am still here,

still intact enough

to be seen without explanation.

I spend the day holding everything in place,

balancing loss with routine,

calling survival a shape I can live inside.

And when night finally softens the edges,

I let go of the performance.

I am not okay—

but I am still holding,

and for now,

that has to be enough.