a poem by Roger B. Rueda
Not all treasures glitter.
Some breathe.
Some fall asleep on your shoulder
in the middle of a bus ride,
mouth slightly open,
dreaming of oceans
they've never seen.
The most precious jewels
are not locked in velvet boxes
but hum beside you—
a mother threading a needle
in the dull quiet of noon,
a child tracing constellations
on a fogged-up window,
a friend who says nothing
but stays,
anyway.
Their value is not weight,
but warmth.
Not shine,
but the softness of a hand
reaching for yours
in a room full of thunder.
Even sorrow,
when carried by someone
whose love is steady,
becomes bearable—
like a storm that breaks
only to reveal
a body still standing.
Still holding on.
Flesh,
not stone,
is what endures.
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