The clock ticks soft in borrowed halls,
Where dreams once whispered through these walls.
Notes and needles, bones and breath—
A thousand steps from life to death.
I used to write beneath the moon,
With hands ink-stained and thoughts in bloom.
But silence crept into my days,
And time began to slip away.
Friends I loved now scatter wide,
Chasing stars and truths we tried.
The club we made with hearts so bold,
Now paused beneath the dust and fold.
Brooke is light in motion still,
With hands that bend the world to will.
She speaks in codes and silver skies—
Google found its flame in her eyes.
And I? I chase a different flame,
White coats, cold rooms, the weight of names.
A healer's path, a sacred ache,
To hold what's breaking, mend what's fake.
I fear the blur of every hour,
The loss of ink, of dreams, of power.
But I will write when shadows part,
In scraps of breath, in bits of heart.
For though the time grows thin and fast,
These words, like ghosts, are built to last.
And when the world forgets my voice—
This quiet page will be my choice.
