one more sunset

one more sunset to make life feel hopeful again

I keep waking up like a song trapped on repeat,
needle hissing in the same wounded groove.
Morning drags itself in wearing yesterday’s bruises.
The sun keeps showing up anyway,
that arrogant golden thing, spilling light
across a room that hasn’t felt alive in months.

People say life moves forward. But mine feels circular.
A funeral carousel: eat, sleep, ache, pretend.
Repeat until the body forgets why it ever
learned to stand upright.

Some nights I think death is less a monster
and more a quiet hallway with the lights already on.
Not violent. Not cruel. Just still—
and maybe that’s the terrifying part.

Because sadness is exhausting in such ordinary ways.
It folds laundry. Answers texts with one-word ghosts.
Stares at ceilings like they contain scripture.
It survives even when it doesn't want to.

I watch old leaves decay into soil,
watch roadkill sink back into the earth,
watch winter trees claw naked at the sky
until spring stitches green veins through again.

Everything dies. Everything returns as something else.
The wolf becomes bone. The bone becomes dust.
The dust feeds flowers that will someday wilt
into another nameless season.

Maybe humans are no different.
Maybe grief is proof that we belong to the same cycle
as oceans and rot and stars collapsing in silence.

Still, there’s a strange cruelty in having a heart
that keeps beating after the spirit has sat down.
I think that’s what depression is:
becoming haunted by your own existence.

And yet… some tiny animal instinct
keeps lighting candles inside me.
Keeps whispering stay, for one more song,
one more thunderstorm, one more orange sunset
bleeding across the horizon like the sky understands.