LITTLE THINGS

I trace my fingers over the kitchen counter,
watching the dust dance through the sunlight,
and suddenly my breath catches in my throat - not because I’m sad, 
just because I’m here.

It’s exhausting sometimes,
how much I notice.

The way the neighbours walk their golden retriever every night,
the quiet tension in my colleague’s hands while staring at the laptop,
the heavy realization that everyone I love is aging in real time.

I carry other people's days home with me.
I read old texts just to feel how we used to talk.
I scroll through old photos of us as kids down by the river,
listening to my husband explain the lore of his video game,
wishing I could slow the clock down with my hands.

Some days it feels like too much skin to wear.
Like I was born missing a layer of armor that everyone else got.

Still, I let the world reach me.

If living means I have to feel the whole weight of it,
that terrible, fleeting warmth of being alive, 
then I’ll take the ache.

I’d rather break a little every day than to forget how precious any of this is.