So few of us left, the ones who leave a litter of thoughts in our wake—across gazes and glances, perhaps a rare scrawling of a punchy one-liner.

Something like “Fear is dissatisfying.”

Why didn’t you just go after what you really wanted?

Or “Everything will always change.”

Why do you keep holding onto what no longer exists?

People will believe what they set out to believe, mishandling the truth of what is real to escape from what never was or can never be again.

For the few, there is no solace in this knowledge. Only more questions leading to more questions. More thoughts against the grain.

always bookmarking quick moments
in between your smiles and laughs
when your hazel eyes flicker in the light
and your brown curls fall messily down
when your freckles are speckles
and little lashes fall on your cheek
like gentle reminders of time moving
somehow both fast and slow
somehow never enough
still, I never miss a single second
and I always tell you to make a wish
as I selfishly make one too
nothing grand to take away from yours
just a small carving of a plea
to keep these quick moments
for forever, as long as I can

shallow thoughts
masquerading as profound
praised and rejoiced by the crowd
for simplicity beckons comprehension
while complexity ruins false realities

I find bitterness
in how they sing, dance, and act
real talents in camera smiles
fooling everyone because
they've fooled themselves
hiding behind duplicity

putting on a spectacular show
rather than facing what lies in truth
cheating themselves by burying
sorrow, pain, and the desolate feelings
that test their strength
makes them human

so few of us willing and able
to face our own reckoning
to bear the weight of the journey
and the hope that what makes it perilous
is what makes it worthwhile

for someone always lingering
in the shadow after light
how it must feel
to face the sun,
matching its fervent touch
with infernal recognition,
a compressed prism
only the dark can feel

It was a day like any day, walking nowhere in particular, when he turned to her and told her, "One day, we'll miss this moment."

With that simple sentence, a murky pang of sadness settled deep inside her. He wasn't a poet, but maybe he should have been.

Would we yearn for the most simple day, one day? The most mundane sunset, the walk to nowhere...

Knowing that time cannot be held onto—that each day together also brought them farther apart, that they would never be as close as they were in this moment.

It reminded her of a scribbled journal entry from long ago; how the happiest memories always became the saddest ones.

She held his hand tighter in resignation.

They continued on.

pain turned into insight
scorn into soft pity, yet
curious how fever dreams
of desire remain the same
after so long, still pulling
from the same well

I ponder about choice
the weight of it on man

for a wolf does not choose
to slake its thirst unjustly
and an overbearing oak
does not refuse the sun

yet man drinks lest he refuses
demands and reasons
towards the imminent dark
or what’s left of the light