If tomorrow never comes,
the sky will stay draped in unfinished colors,
words will hang unsaid between half-open doors.

The coffee will cool untouched,
the book will close itself
on a story that never found its ending.

If tomorrow never comes,
the earth will still turn,
slow and stubborn,
carrying our forgotten wishes like seeds
scattered into fields no one will tend.

What matters then is not what we waited for,
but what we dared to touch,
what we chose to leave burning in the night.

A glance,a breath,a single hand held tight
---
fragile things,
enough.