The Weight of Amber

Insects trapped in golden light, their wings still caught mid-flight, while centuries drip like honey.

We preserve what we fear losing— pressed flowers in books we'll never read again, photographs where everyone still breathes.

Time is a jeweler's craft, turning soft things hard, turning bright things into relics we polish and study for what they meant to tell us.

The amber knows nothing of tomorrow. It only knows the perfect keeping of a moment that died the instant it was caught.