Existential

There are days
when I cannot tell
if I am living my life
or simply standing inside it.

Sometimes I need
the weight of ordinary things—

the counter beneath my hand
the floor holding me up.

I have loved people
who made me question
whether love was
something we entered
or something we survived.

I have stood inside happiness
and already mourned it.

Maybe that is the
terrifying beauty of it—

to know something is alive
and already feel
the shape of its absence.