"live." the last words she ever spoke, carried out with the wind. a dying wish. but how did one live? did they simply wake up every morning? no. no, it had to be more special. it is not the steady rhythm of the chest, nor the simple ticking of the clock. to live is to gather the quiet moments, the ones that leave you soft and undone. it is found in the courage to feel, to let the world break your heart open, and to love anyway, despite the fractures. it is the warmth of salt tears on a cheek, and the fierce, sudden burst of laughter. to live is to be entirely present— tasting the rain, holding a hand tighter, and realizing that the ordinary days are the ones we will wish we could keep. she did not ask you to merely survive. she asked you to catch the light, to burn brightly before you fade, and to leave your own echo in the wind.
photos: google poem: mixed
