Before the Clock Runs Still

If tonight the moon grows cold,
and my story goes untold—
would you feel, in all we’ve shared,
how I’ve loved you, how I’ve cared?

Not just “I love you” whispered low,
but cups of coffee, shovelling snow—
the laundry folded, dishes dried,
small proof of what I hold inside.

Did I pause to really see
the light that makes you, you, to me?
Or let life’s noise, loud and blind,
steal the chance to slow the time?

For parents, siblings—blood-deep ties—
did I laugh with them, memorize
the sound of voices, wrinkles earned,
or assume there’d be “next turns”?

Friends who walked my hardest miles,
did I call, or just file
their names in some “someday” drawer,
while days slipped by, forevermore?

Love’s not grand—it’s bread, not gold.
A text sent. Soup when they’re cold.
A hand squeezed when words fall short,
a “you’re my home” in every hurt.

So let me plant what I’ve delayed—
the “miss you,” “thanks,” left unsaid.
Time’s a thief with no remorse…
Don’t save your heart for a eulogy’s course.

Say it. Show it. Don’t wait.
Before it’s just too late.
For if tomorrow never comes,
let love shout loud in deeds, not hums.