Whispers in the Quiet Room

He’s forty-three,

worn like creases in an old coat—

rough edges softened by years,

by nights spent counting cold stars

through cracked windows.

Across the room,

a youth with nineteen springs—

fresh eyes, reckless heart,

hope tangled with shadows,

a secret tucked beneath his ribs.

They share stolen glances

between quiet meals,

soft smiles masked by silence,

words trapped by rules that bind—

no fraternizing, no love allowed,

not here, not now,

not in this fragile shelter where

hope’s weighed down by fear.

The charity’s gospel whispers hate,

old hymns of judgment

that cut sharper than winter’s wind,

and the stigma—

a heavy cloak,

woven of whispered shame and whispered lies.

So love hides in shadows,

a gentle rebellion—

hands never touched,

hearts beating loud

in the stillness where no one hears.

He dreams of freedom,

of a world where their names

are not curses but promises,

where age is just a number,

and love is a light—

bright enough to burn away

the cold, the rules, the fear.

But for now,

he holds his secret close,

a quiet flame against the dark,

a whispered prayer

in a shelter’s silent room.