What if the moments we cling to
are only echoes —
ripples on water
that forget our touch?
What if the people we love
are constellations —
close enough to light our way
but too far to hold?
What if every “forever” we promise
is just sand —
shaped by wind,
washed by tide,
never still?
And what if that’s okay?
What if beauty lives in the vanishing —
in the almost, the maybe,
the fleeting warmth of a hand
we were never meant to keep?
What if the point was never permanence —
but the firefly glow of something
brief and brilliant,
that made the dark feel less alone?
English