a rock falling

on the ground echoes.

while a broken heart

screams in a silent room.

one pocket is filled with

“what if?”

another filled with

“i should have.”

another filled with names

of people long gone.

every day a man

enters the coffee shop.

they know his name.

they know his order.

they even know his birthday.

but nobody knows how

long he sat in the car

waiting to get out.

the call he received

yesterday.

the diagnosis.

the accident.

the death.

maybe that’s the secret.

we are all carrying something.

the person who tells the loudest story

may have the deepest pain.

the biggest smile.

the most cheerful laugh

may be painted on

the darkest hurt.

i thought most of my life

that the weight was mine alone.

i thought carrying weight

made me stronger,

to hide the cracks

and paint the smiles.

maybe the strength

was never about pretending

the weight wasn’t there.

maybe it was having courage

to say,

“this is heavy.

can you help?”