I tell myself—just a little longer,
though the weight is heavy, the air too thick.
The sun rises, but I do not reach for it,
only watch as light fades before it touches me.
The days blur like water down a window,
quiet, slipping, never quite clear.
Each breath feels borrowed,
each step, a whisper of effort.
But somewhere, a bird still sings for me,
soft notes curling in the wind.
Somewhere, a hand might reach back if I reach first,
a voice might call my name and mean it.
So I stay—just a little longer,
for the chance that tomorrow might feel lighter,
that the night might hold me gently
instead of pressing me into the dark.
I don’t know if it will,
but for now, I tell myself—
just a little longer.
