In His Lines

 A shooting star streaks across the night sky, brilliant yet fleeting, a reminder of how life often passes by unnoticed. Its radiant glow catches the eye for a moment, but soon it fades, swallowed by the vastness of the universe. Just like that star, lives can pass by without leaving a mark, their brief existence barely acknowledged. If one star were to get lost in the endless expanse, no one would mourn its absence, the night sky would remain unchanged. It simply symbolizes how easily life can slip away like sand in hand, a brief flash that fades into the darkness, leaving no trace or tear behind.

 When the only thing dividing the blue from the orange, in the cold evening, is a fine line, the blues spread like a forgotten sea. The orange clings to the horizon, fading, yet certain of its end. The air hangs still, heavy with quiet, as if not daring to disturb the fragile balance. The blue deepens, swallowing the last warmth of the orange, leaving shadows to stretch, hollow and long. Silence lingers, oppressive, while the wind moves unnoticed, like a forgotten whisper. The line fades, dissolving into the stillness, and with it, the quiet ache of things lost too soon, of promises never kept. Somewhere, the sound of glass tipping out a window shatters the silence.