Borrowed Time

Each moment is a gift I do not own, a flame flickering in hands too unsteady to keep it forever. The clock does not ask for my permission, its ticking is a quiet reminder that nothing stays. I walk through days as though they are mine to keep, but they slip through, like sand, like smoke. What will I do with what I cannot hold? How do I live knowing it is all borrowed, every breath, every sunrise, every touch that lingers and every goodbye that fades? Perhaps it is not about holding on, but about letting go- letting each moment shape me, even as it vanishes.