II.  

You are the quiet spine in every space,
the gentle gravity holding the place.

You read the room before a word is said,
you carry the weight of what others dread.

You soften the edges when tempers rise,
you swallow your ache with a practiced sigh.

You pour and you pour until you run thin,
and call it strength while breaking within.

But strength was never meant to be alone.
Even oak trees lean when storms are thrown.

Even rivers widen where they bend—
even the strong deserve to descend.