I mistook the sunrise for a promise once,
but it was only another clock in disguise.
The sky hums in fluorescent tones now,
bright enough to blind, never to warm.
I traded my constellations for pay stubs,
stitched stability into my shadow.
Every dream I buried grew into an invoice,
each “someday” stamped expired.
The horizon forgot to reach back.
my footsteps echo through unfinished versions of me.
Even silence feels like an obligation,
something I owe for staying practical.
I used to think meaning was magnetic,
but it rusted faster than ambition.
Now I orbit predictability,
a planet that’s given up pretending to glow.
Nights are quieter, but not kind.
The stars feel outsourced, automated.
I breathe in resignation like air
and exhale what’s left of wonder.