夕日

The world seemed to freeze between an inhale and an exhale, transparent, slightly ringing, like a morning after a sleepless nite. There's nothing missing, but there's nothing to hold onto either: your hands slide thru the air where the outline of something important once was. The sun lazily peeks thru the tulle, tickling your eyes, and your own shadow seems elusive, as if it has dissolved into the blue. Everything flows slowly, too slowly, and even thoughts lag behind like light that's too lazy to catch up with the dawn. The delicate balance between light and darkness trembles like a soap bubble film. I want to seize the moment, hold it close to my chest, but it crumbles, leaving only a shard of warmth on my palms. All that's left is to repeat familiar movements, not for meaning, but for the rhythm itself, as if an endless "just a little more" could replace the future. And somewhere on the border of light, a voice whispers, not comforting, not calling, just reminding: while everything hasn't dissolved, you can still breathe a little longer.