A bright moment unfolds—  warmth like the smell of honeysuckle on skin,  a taste of something perfect, fragile as morning dew.  

You hold it close,  knowing the clock ticks quietly,  each second slipping away, a whisper of what was, before it fades into memory.  

It shines with a fierce glow, like a firefly caught in a jar—  beautiful, alive, but trapped by time’s unyielding hands.  

You want to stretch it, to live inside this bubble longer,  but the edges will eventually fray, and the night waits patiently, ready to pull it back into shadow.  

So you breathe it in deep, this fleeting grace, knowing that the best things often come wrapped in the bittersweet promise of their own end.