There's a quietness that comes with closing the door
on wanting anything else, a particular kind of silence
where the word enough becomes a lock
and the key stays somewhere you can't quite reach.

You've noticed how the light falls differently
when you're not allowed to wish it brighter,
how gratitude can feel like a small room
where the air grows thinner each time you breathe it in.

There is something true in acceptance,
but there is also something true in the ache,
in the part of you that looks at what you have
and knows, with a clarity that won't soften,
that it isn't enough. Not because you're ungrateful.
Not because you're broken or wanting in some spiritual sense.

But because you've measured it against yourself,
against what you need to feel alive,
and the math doesn't work out,
no matter how many times you're told to add differently.

So you sit with both things, perhaps,
the weight of what is and the weight of what isn't,
the exhaustion of being told to be happy
while something in you remains, quietly, not.