It’s not the clock that whispers loud—
not the calendar squares that add up.
It’s the breath you take at sunrise,
the echoes your laughter leaves behind.
It’s the way your hands remember touch,
how your feet dance despite the rain,
the stories your kitchen tiles could tell,
all spilled flour and unexpected joy.
It’s the nights you stayed up late—
eyes heavy, but heart so much alive.
It’s the tilt of your head in wonder,
the peculiar magic in finding stars.
Life is not measured in mile markers,
but by the spark inside your moments.
It’s a firework bursting unannounced,
a heartbeat daring to beat too loud.
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Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: January 13th, 2026 11:04
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 29
- Users favorite of this poem: Doggerel Dave, Cristobel
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Comments3
great write my friend, so deep but so clear
Thanks Norman I appreciate your feedback
Most welcome great read
A lovely write about someone cared about remembered by the good times. A marvelous write of endearment.
Thanks Soren I appreciate your feedback
You are most welcome Gray
All that measurement (birthdays etc) abandoned for the experiential stirred an almost forgotten feeling - valuable write. Thanks for placing it here.
Thanks Dave I always appreciate your feedback brother
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