What comes to mind now, do you know?
The moment I sit to write of you, madness takes hold.
An invisible fear circles me always—
though your memories blur and fade,
something keeps chasing me down, again and again.
Tears spill across my cheeks,
the pen's ink runs dry,
even the last flicker of the candle before me—
whispers its message of extinction in a sudden wind.
Why can't I forget the touch of you?
Let me go.
# Unfading The old photograph yellows on the shelf, its edges curled like leaves that remember the season they fell. You are there— chin tilted, eyes holding some secret the camera could not keep. I've tried to look away a thousand times. The dust settles, settles again, but your face remains the way light remains in the sky after the sun has gone. They say time heals. They say forgetting is a mercy. But what if I don't want your laughter to fade? What if I choose to hold it, raw and aching, the way a river holds a stone— smooth from the holding, shaped by refusal to let go? The photograph doesn't age like we do. It stays fixed in that moment— you, forever young; me, forever the one who loves the unchanging. Some marks don't fade. Some stains are the most beautiful things on our hands.
Share this article