I feel its weight in my chest
whenever I see it—
potential, drained into pure nothingness.
I wonder.

How can something so full of life, so saturated with love,
stand so daunting, so hollow?
I hold on to the thought that it may be a false impression,
that it’s not this simple,
that nothing can be this simple.

And yet, every single day,
the sight persists—
as clear as the sky,
as dark as the mind’s depths.

But once again, I hesitate.
Perhaps next time, it will be different,

While feeling, with unwavering certainty, this resignation
to what has already been offered.
While knowing all too well
that the pause has stretched beyond return.

A breath once unnoticed
now impossibly heavy, impossible to ignore.

The solemnity in their composure is undeniable,
undeniable when pieced together over time.

I wonder if they, too, have paused,
hesitated at the edges of their own reflection,
waiting for something to realign.

But once again, I say nothing.
Perhaps next time, it will be different.