It’s not the clock that whispers loud—
not the calendar squares that add up.
It’s the breath you take at sunrise,
the echoes your laughter leaves behind.
It’s the way your hands remember touch,
how your feet dance despite the rain,
the stories your kitchen tiles could tell,
all spilled flour and unexpected joy.
It’s the nights you stayed up late—
eyes heavy, but heart so much alive.
It’s the tilt of your head in wonder,
the peculiar magic in finding stars.
Life is not measured in mile markers,
but by the spark inside your moments.
It’s a firework bursting unannounced,
a heartbeat daring to beat too loud.