You wish for what cannot be,
For doors that will never open,
For hands that will never hold yours.
You trace the edges of a dream that slips like water through your fingers,
And every heartbeat stretches into a quiet ache you cannot name.

Hope blooms in your chest like a fragile flower in winter soil.
Beautiful,
Stubborn,
And destined to wither.

Every “what if” is a small knife,
Twisting just enough to remind you that reality does not bend for longing.
And yet you reach,
Again and again,
As if the hurt were proof of life itself,
Forgetting that some stars cannot be caught,
Some rivers cannot be turned.

Wishing for the impossible does not make you brave.
It leaves you raw,
Tender to the world,
Bleeding quietly
For something
That was never yours to hold.