Sometimes I sit and stare into the sky
and wonder:
Does anything ever truly last,
or do all things leave quietly
with the changing seasons?

I look to the clouds with gratitude
because I know one day
I won’t be able to see them again.

There’s a tenderness in their passing.
A softness in knowing
that beauty visits briefly,
then disappears like breath into air.

I sometimes find myself
caught between wonder and distance
watching something magical
while dissociating in my own mind,
aware, even as it unfolds,
that I may never feel this exact moment again.

That thought makes things sharper.
Makes them more fragile, more precious.
I don’t hold them tighter.
I just watch.
And let them pass through me
like light through glass,
leaving a trace,
but never staying.

Maybe that’s what it means to live:
to witness beauty,
to feel the ache of its leaving,
and to still look up at the sky,
thankful for what remains.