They glitter when they move —
so easy to witness from afar,
so hard to hold up close.
I stand there,
listening,
watching,
yet fearing —
fearing their sting,
fearing their crumble at every touch.
They’re so easy to break,
so easy to crack,
so easy to get hurt with.
I tell myself to reach out,
just once —
but even the thought feels sharp.
What if my warmth is the thing
that makes them shatter?
So I stay where the light can’t cut me,
where their beauty is safest —
on the other side of silence,
where nothing breaks,
and nothing touches back.