I hold hope in my hand like a fragile, hand-blown glass piece.
Sculpted by each moment, stretched by every memory.
I am clumsy so I grip it tight.
Spider-web cracks, cracks threatening to come through.
I loosen my grip and it teeters in my hand.
Ground far below, hands too slow.
Is this what hope feels like?
Too fragile to touch, too delicate to let go?
If I drop it, surely it will break.
If I keep it, surely I will hold it too tight.
Broken either way.
Hope.
Fragile.
In my hand and falling to the floor.
The only thing I have left.
