Ash with Pulse
I learned the cost of breathing fast
and paid it without protest.
The night took pieces of my name
and left me what it guessed.
I loved the things that ruin us,
the heat, the hunger, sound.
I mistook the fall for flying once
and never checked the ground.
Still... somewhere in the wreckage left,
a small, unbroken glow:
not hope that saves, but hope that says
you lived before you go.
Copyright © Julius Yamo | Year Posted 2025
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