Blue

Borrowed Hours

We walk on clocks with silent feet, Each tick a ghost beneath the skin— The sun spills gold we cannot keep, And moonlight writes what might have been.

Time is not ours, not truly held, It’s lent like breath to burning flame, A whispered debt, a story shelved, A name we speak but cannot claim.

The morning blooms, then folds away, Its petals bruised by dusk’s descent. We trade our youth for wiser days, And spend our hearts on what was meant.

The stars remember what we’ve lost, They blink in code we’ll never learn. Yet still we dance, despite the cost, On borrowed hours we’ll never earn.

So let us love with open hands, And craft our myths in fleeting light— For time, though borrowed, understands The beauty of a borrowed night.