The Empty Cup.

The heart is wide and offers all,

A river flowing to the sea.

To catch the others when they fall,

But none return to rescue me.

To watch the world in golden pairs,

A simple hand, a quiet gaze.

The burden that the spirit bears,

Within these long and lonely days.

The water pours from hands so worn,

To fill the cups of those in need.

But standing in the light of morn,

The gardener has no more seed.

A quiet hope still burns within,

That someone sees the hidden light.

To find where love can truly win,

And end the silence of the night.

Day 72 / 365

Giving love is as natural as breathing,

Yet receiving it feels like a language that hasn’t been learned yet.

There is a specific kind of exhaustion that comes from always being the listener,

The one who shows up, and the one who makes sure everyone else feels seen,

Only to realize that when the cup is empty, no one is there to pour back.

It’s the quiet question that haunts the 3 a.m. hours:

What does it feel like to be someone’s first choice?

It isn't about grand gestures or perfection.

It’s about the simple, effortless belonging that everyone else seems to have.

But until that day comes, the hope remains,

The belief that one day, someone will finally see the gardener who has been tending everyone else’s flowers,

And decide it’s time to bring them a bouquet.

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