Because it will fade

I do not love the rose despite its dying—

I love it because it dies.

Each petal is a breath held between heartbeats,

a fragile cathedral of velvet and rain,

and the wind is already whispering its undoing.

I cup its softness knowing

my fingers cannot keep it.

That is why they hold it tighter.

The ocean wave breaks more beautiful

when you know it will never rise again in that same shape.

The sun bleeds richer gold

when you feel it sliding toward the horizon.

And you—

your laughter, your breath,

the particular way your eyes drink in the day—

you are here now,

and the clock is already taking you away from me.

Every passing second is a theft

and a blessing.

This is the covenant of the temporary:

We are not promised tomorrow,

so we drink the wine while it’s still warm in the glass.

We dance knowing the song will end,

and because of that—

we dance harder.

The finite is the fire.

The ending is the ember.

And when my hands finally close on nothing,

when the light recedes into the quiet,

I will have loved you with the ferocity

of someone who knew

that love was a comet—

and that it was worth burning my eyes

to watch it blaze.