Unposted Notes

I wake up with the sun bleeding gold through a dusty pane,

but nothing ever glows inside me.

Same curtain. Same skyline.

Same ache.

I’ve built empires in notebooks,

drafted futures in coffee spoons and browser tabs,

mapped out escape routes I never took—

too precise, too perfect, too paralyzed.

I am fluent in the language of almost.

Skilled at tomorrow.

God of the unfinished.

Every day I wake up broke—

not just in my wallet,

but in my will.

I watch the city move without me,

humming the rhythm of lives that did not wait.

When will I stop editing the plan

and start living the sentence?

Maybe change doesn’t come with sunrise.

Maybe it comes with snapping.

Or bleeding.

Or finally letting go of the version of me

that only ever dreams

and never dares.