It saddens me in quiet ways
That linger long through all my days,
To watch a weight I cannot name
Rest on a soul not seen the same.

To see a softness slowly dim,
A tiredness gather at the brim
Of words unspoken, distant eyes,
And all the small, unnoticed signs.

There is a hurt in standing near,
In carrying both care and fear,
In knowing something is not right,
Yet finding no clear path to light.

I do not know what hand to raise,
What words might help, what act might stay
The slow and silent sort of pain
That falls like unrelenting rain.

And so I stay with heavy heart,
Unsure of how to do my part.
Wishing I could somehow reach
What sorrow keeps just out of speech.

It is a helpless kind of grief,
To long to bring some small relief,
Yet feel your care can only stand
As something tender, still, unmanned.

To watch neglect in quiet form
Can feel its own enduring storm.
Not loud enough to call alarm,
Yet deep enough to leave its harm.

And maybe that is what cuts through
To see, to care, and not know what to do.
To hold concern that has no end,
And ache for one you call a friend.

So all I have, for now, is this:
A sorrow shaped by what I miss.
A hope that somehow they may find
The warmth, the grace, the steadier kind

Of presence that can make them whole,
Or at least soften what they hold.
And though I cannot mend the ache,
My heart still hurts for their own sake.

Penned by my hand on the 13th of Chronos, in the year 1002 AF.