Half light

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.