Borrowed Time
We’d wake with numbers stitched beneath our skin,
a quiet countdown no one dares to pin,
each step we take subtracts what we can’t see,
a life measured in what’s left to be.
You’d learn the weight of saying “stay a while,”
when “while” could cost a month just for a smile,
and conversations wouldn’t wander far—
small talk is cheap, but truth leaves scars.
The desperate trade their years to feel okay,
the wealthy barely notice lost decay,
a handshake might require a piece of you,
a debt collected in what you once knew.
But I would spend it all without a plea,
no fear of what that emptiness might be,
because a fleeting second in your light
outweighs an endless, borrowed night
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