I want to believe in the sunrise,
that the sky still remembers
how to blush after a long night.
But shadows linger,
stretching thin across the floor,
reminding me
that morning doesn’t erase the dark —
it only softens it.
I hold hope like a fragile match,
small flame cupped in my palms,
but doubt leans in heavy,
a breath that could snuff it out
with one careless sigh.
Maybe that’s the truth of it —
hope was never meant to be certain,
just stubborn enough
to glow in the cracks
where doubt thought it would rule.