Hope is the Heaviest Thing

I hold out my hands

full of small futures

offered like seeds—

each one split open,

left in the dark

where nothing roots.

I watch you turn away,

shut the window,

choose the dust

over light.

My anger is a river

my disappointment, silt

layering slow,

thick as regret

at the bottom of my chest.

Still—

I keep hoping.

It’s a reflex,

a wound that never scabs.

Maybe next spring.

Maybe someone else.

Maybe this ache is proof

I’m not made of stone.