Some memories are gentle, like rain on window glass,
They whisper who we were, in moments that don’t last.
Others cut like jagged stone, sharp beneath our feet,
Yet somehow carve the path that leads us where we meet.
The laughter of a summer day, the ache of letting go,
The first time hope felt real, the sting of letting go.
They stitch themselves inside us, in quiet, unseen seams,
Turning scattered pieces into the shape of who we’ve been.
We are the sum of every scar, every golden thread,
Every joy we chased too hard, every tear we never said.
Memories don’t just haunt us—they quietly rebuild,
The fragile, stubborn hearts that learned how to feel.