Inventory of the Unthanked

This is for the 8:05 bus that never came,

which left me on the curb where a spring tree

let its first soft petal fall

into my hand.

This is for the harsh word lodged in my throat,

a fossil of anger I carried for years,

until its weight steadied me

and kept me from tipping into a softer, weaker sea.

This is for the scar—not for the wound,

but for the new, quieter pain

that now sings a low warning a full minute before the storm.

This is for the love that left without a note,

showing me how an empty room

can flood with a different kind of light.

I am building a monument from these quiet things.

Not with marble, but with breath and memory.

It does not gleam. It hums.

A grateful, complicated sound.