Yet?

Hope -

a sly lover, shadow-draped and bare,

whispering promises through the cracks of a locked door.

She walks on the edge of silence,

heels clicking a rhythm only your heartbeat knows.

She tastes of copper and honey -

bitter, sweet, electric.

Her hands, soft as twilight clouds,

press against your chest,

where your ribs ache with the weight of waiting.

She flirts with ruin,

dancing on the precipice of despair,

but never falls.

Hope doesn’t need wings;

she climbs, barefoot and bold,

her laugh daring gravity to chase her.

Even when the sky is bruised

and the stars have turned their backs,

she lingers,

a quiet glow beneath the ashes,

a stubborn ember murmuring:

Not yet.