Until My Hands Forget

I know some say

that silence is golden.

but for me,

silence is heavy.

so I speak with colors.

with brush strokes.

with broken chords on a guitar.

with scribbles in notebooks.

with words that don’t rhyme,

but still mean everything.

when I’m lost,

I paint.

when I’m weary,

I sing.

when I’m alive,

I write.

and I keep going—

until the canvas breathes back at me,

until the song lifts me,

until my fingers forget the weight of the day.

art has never abandoned me.

it whispers when people leave.

it stays when everything else

crumbles.

and I know,

one day,

my hands will tremble too much,

my voice will crack,

my sight will dim.

but until that day comes,

I will create.

until my hands forget,

I will remember myself.