Hope Dies Last

They say hope dies last—

but they don’t tell you

how long it takes to rot.

How it lingers

after the body gives in,

after the faith breaks,

after the hands stop reaching.

It clings to bone,

to the small rituals—

checking your phone,

leaving the porch light on,

saving a seat where no one sits anymore.

Hope doesn’t die clean.

It coughs up flowers,

bile-sweet and petal-soft,

blooming in the throat

until you can’t speak without bleeding.

It hums lullabies in a dead language.

It wears your memories like perfume.

It crawls into bed with you at night,

cold-limbed and whispering,

“maybe tomorrow.”

Even after the silence,

even after the apology that never comes,

even after the light changes and doesn’t turn back—

you keep listening.

You keep waiting.

You keep setting the table for a ghost

you don’t even believe in anymore.

Because hope dies last.

And you’re still here.

Which means

you haven’t buried it yet.