The Fragile Soul

The Fragile Soul

The soul is fragile,

delicate as a leaf in wind,

it bends, it twists,

it breaks without warning,

and the world keeps moving

as if nothing has changed.

I watch it hiding in shadows,

slipping between cracks in walls,

finding corners where no one looks,

and I feel its weight

against my own chest,

its quiet tremor

like glass about to shatter.

It carries memory,

sharp and tender,

moments folded into itself,

things we try to forget

and cannot,

things we hold too tightly,

and they cut us.

The fragile soul drifting in people,

touching, brushing,

felt only by those who pay attention,

and it shivers

at every careless word,

every harsh glance,

hands reach and then withdraw.

It is not strong,

it is not fierce,

it cannot fight the storms of life,

but it survives, somehow,

learning to hide,

learning to bend,

learning to whisper when it must.

I feel it in the quiet hours,

when the world sleeps,

when the streets are empty,

when the heart listens

and knows all the weight

cannot be carried in the body alone.

The fragile soul is patient,

waiting for the one who understands,

for the one who will not crush it

with careless laughter,

or leave it alone too long,

or forget that it exists at all.

And when it meets someone who sees,

really sees,

it trembles and glows,

it breathes,

it dances

in the hidden spaces of the world,

and for a moment,

it feels whole.