This poem trembles with the fear that nothing we do will endure.

It names our truths and lies, our songs and fights, as fragile offerings.

Even broken hearts or transplanted ones are seen as vulnerable inheritances.

The language of anger or tenderness “damn” or “fuck” is still a human cry.

Behind the cynicism lies a longing for meaning, a plea not to be erased.

The world may collapse in chaos, yet the poem insists on remembering our care.

Every gesture, however futile, carries the weight of our shared humanity.

It is despair, yes, but also confession: we loved, we tried, we resisted.

Life may not depend on us, but we depend on life to keep reaching.

And in that reaching, even fragile, we remain unmistakably human.