To the Maker of Time

You, who wrestle hours bare, yet carve a minute soft and rare for every glance, for every call, you give what’s left, or none at all. Though days may crush, and trials climb, you show in moments stolen fine. No grand excuse, no bitter sigh, just love that breathes, then passes by. So here’s to you—the soul who tries, who finds the stars in weary skies. You made me feel, in seconds few, what hours failed to ever do.