The weight does not decrease,
only your arms grow accustomed
to the particular shape of it,
the way it settles differently
on Tuesdays than Thursdays.

You learn that moving on
is not the same as leaving,
that the stone in your chest
can sit there while you pour tea,
while you laugh at something small,
while you pretend for five minutes
that nothing has shifted.

It has shifted. Everything has.

Stoics knew this: that some things
are not ours to control,
only to witness and carry,
the way a river carries
what falls into it,
not arguing with the weight,
not asking why,
just moving forward
because the alternative
is stillness,
and stillness, too, is a choice.