Time folds into a single beat,
the past, present, and future
collapse into now.
Our footprints become tattoos,
painted upon those who love us
with a brush of thoughts and emotion.
Inscribed in breath,
a glance held too long,
a word unsaid,
the silence between two heartbeats
that speaks louder than thunder.
We are not merely who we were,
nor only who we will be,
but the fire in the eye,
the tremor in the hand,
the courage to say
I am here
when the world begs us to vanish.
Promise your passion
not in declarations,
but in the way you linger at the door,
turning back to say
I meant it,
in the warmth of a hand
on a fevered brow,
in laughter shared
over burnt toast,
in letters written
but never sent,
ink bleeding through paper
like memory.
We are constellations of moments:
the first step
on frost-laced grass,
the last look
before the lights go out,
the song that plays
when no one’s singing.
Each act of love,
a star ignited,
invisible at first,
then blazing across time,
guiding those who follow
the same fragile path.
Promise your passion,
not because it will be returned,
but because the soul withers
without offering.
Give it even when afraid,
especially when the heart trembles.
Let your joy be reckless,
your sorrow honest,
your presence a vow,
in the air others breathe.
For when the years fold
like old letters,
and the body returns
to dust and whisper,
it will not be what you possessed
that matters,
but what you stirred,
the ripples
from your quietest touch,
the echo
of your yes in someone else’s darkness.
Now.
Now. Now.
This is the only time we have.
So burn bright,
and pledge your passion
to the fleeting,
holy moment.