The truth is: our bodies were not built to carry this much indifference.
We are brief here; comets, not monuments.
Say I love you while their ears are still tuned to your frequency,
before absence rearranges the furniture of the room,
before silence inherits the chair
where their laughter once sat.
Death does not send warning letters.
It slips in, mid-sentence, and turns the page for us.
Time will tease us with the illusion of pause,
but it never stops.
It doesn’t care if you are ready,
it doesn’t care if you are begging for one more minute.
So don’t wait.
Say the thing now.
Say it messy, say it trembling, say it wrong.
Because perfection is a luxury the living don’t have,
and regret is the tax we pay
for believing we did.
What survives us is not how carefully we spoke,
but how recklessly we loved
while we still had the chance.