Fragile

 Life is the porcelain cup perched on a ledge, hands brushing close but never quite holding it steady. It’s the morning fog, delicate and full, only to dissolve when the sun finds it, unaware it’s been noticed. Life is fragile, a spider’s web strung between branches, trembling with the weight of a single raindrop yet strong enough to cradle the morning light. In each heartbeat, there’s a flicker of trust, an agreement with the unseen that the next will follow—but the pulse is fickle, its rhythm an unpromised gift. We walk on soil that shifts and crumbles, feeling its fleeting softness, learning to press gently. And so we cherish what’s easily lost, our breaths hushed as if speaking too loud might shatter the spell that holds everything together.