COME Just for today, I’ll say “Come.” If the windowsill hadn’t mirrored my eyes, maybe I’d have kept quiet. If my father’s tie hadn’t tightened around my waist, if my mother had come, I wouldn’t be calling you now. Come, maybe you’d be the one to hush me to sleep. I don't know how many candles are left, where I can still be this soft? Or How many more times will I breathe out not to make a wish, just to make it through? Come, my wristwatch fits tighter each day. Like time is pulling at my skin. Somewhere along the way, I must’ve set myself aside — left on a shelf too high to reach. Come, no one stirs when I speak anymore. It’s been months of waking alone, saying good morning only to the ember glowing through the blinds. Come, if you’re the light, then let me be the one who rises before you. That morning, no one will cry. That morning, I’ll be the one who makes the day bright for you. And I’ll know — it was always meant for today.