Between The Hours Poem by ashok jadhav

I wake, I dress, I move through morning's list—
the kettle sings, the bus arrives on time.
My hands know what to do without my heart;
habit is kind enough to carry me.
No one sees the ache folded in these acts,
the way my smile is borrowed for the day.
I answer questions, nod at passing talk,
while grief waits quietly for its turn.
It lives between the minutes of my life:
in the pause before I speak your name,
in evenings when the work is finally done
and there is nothing left to distract me.
Routine keeps the world from noticing
how carefully I am still breaking.
I survive by doing what must be done,
hiding sorrow in the ordinary hours.