My Own Moments

I held on like frost clings to glass fragile,

fleeting, but desperate to stay.

I wrapped my fingers around the ghost of us,

as if memory can warm what time had already chilled.

The past pulsed in my palms, a heartbeat I couldn’t silence,

a name I whispered even when silence begged me to stop.

I wore hope like a mask threadbare coat, patched with promises

that never made it through winter.

And still, I stayed— not because it felt right,

but because I didn’t know who I was without the ache.