The sky bleeds gold at dusk,
paints fire on the water,
but no one stays to see it fade.

I have watched a thousand sunsets,
felt the warmth spill through my hands,
only to vanish like breath on glass.
I have held names like sand,
listened to laughter turn to echoes,
left alone in rooms that once knew voices.

They call it a gift,
this long walk through endless days,
but they never ask how heavy time can be
when it will not end.

I have traced my scars like constellations,
searching for a story in them,
a reason, a purpose, a way to say:
“This is why I am still here.”
But meaning is a fragile thing.
Some days it fits in my palm;
some days it slips through the cracks.

I wonder, often,
what it feels like to stop.
To step off the edge of this slow decay,
to fold myself into the quiet,
to leave before time can take me.

But the stars still burn above me,
ancient and dying,
whispering that even forever is not forever,
that even they will turn to dust.

So I stay.
Not because I want to.
Not because I have hope.
But because I have seen the sky bleed gold at dusk,
and it is still beautiful,
even when no one stays to see it fade.