Memory

Memory is a quiet thief,

slipping through the halls of my mind

collecting pieces of who I was

and leaving them in places

I can’t always reach.

Some nights they return—

soft as dust,

sharp as glass—

faces I loved,

moments I meant to keep,

the echoes of laughter

that no longer belongs to now.

I touch them carefully,

afraid they’ll fade again

if I breathe too deep.

But memories never stay

the way you saved them.

They shift,

they dim,

they soften at the edges

until they’re more feeling than fact,

more ache than image.

Still—

I hold them close,

these fragments that made me,

these ghosts of gentler days.

Because even when they hurt,

they remind me

that I lived.

And that I loved

hard enough

to remember.