I’m at that point
where the days blur,
and meaning slips
like water through my fingers.

I wake,
but it feels like waiting.
I sleep,
but it feels like hiding.

Hope used to hum
softly in the background —
now it’s a silence
I pretend not to notice.

I carry this life
like a coat that no longer fits,
stitched with memories
that don’t feel like mine.

But even in this ache,
there’s a whisper:
not of endings,
but of rest,
of laying down the weight
without giving up the soul.