Morning comes too quietly, like it knows
It has no right to be this gentle
When your world has already been broken,
When the light stretches across a room that feels too empty.
The bed is colder in ways no blanket can fix,
The silence louder than any cry you once soothed,
And in that first breath of waking, before thought fully forms,
You remember, again, that something precious is missing.
Daylight does not ask permission to arrive,
It spills over memories you carefully carry,
Over tiny echoes of laughter, of footsteps, of a voice
That still lives somewhere between your heart and the air.
And still, you rise, because love does not end with loss,
Because being their parent did not stop in the night,
Because even in the quiet ache of morning,
You carry them with you into every new day.