Death is the same

color as frost.

It comes when you’re

broken, lonely, or lost,

blooming on your fractured

ribs like fire

or moss.

Even when you whisper

in the hollow of night,

or cry, mumbling, in the blur

of the light: _someone’s gonna_

_save me._

But your will slips past

your destiny.

And what you’ve searched for

endlessly

arrives—quiet

and free.

No fight, no falling,

just breathe.

The day you lost your voice

was not the day

you lost the power to scream.

I promise you:

we’re as real

as in your dreams.

You promise you:

_someone’s gonna save me._