You and Your Memory
when you’re gone,
your memory returns
like a smile
pressed inside an old diary,
a rose still breathing in paper.
each time I open it,
the air fills with you.
you
a sweet thirst,
a quiet promise
the world keeps waiting for.
at night,
when the fields fall asleep
and the fires grow cold,
your memory comes —
lays a hand on my shoulder
and sits beside me
without a word.
you\'d ask:
why do you love me
this much?
I don\'t know.
maybe because
you just keep happening to me —
in teacups,
in warm bread,
in the folds of books,
in songs I never meant to write.
last night,
you came again.
quietly.
stood near.
your lips moved.
I almost heard you.
sometimes I’m afraid —
you’re only a dream.
or an old poem
I never finished.
but you’re here.
I know it.
all around me —
like the air,
like the soil,
like that one song
still waiting
to find its voice.