THE WEIGHT OF WHAT STILL BREATHES
Memories do not fade here—
they sharpen,
like glass left in water too long.
I carry them in my pockets,
heavy with fingerprints,
warm as a pulse under skin.
They speak in ordinary sounds:
a door closing,
my name said without urgency.
Sometimes they stand in front of me,
blocking the present,
casting shadows the future steps into.
I call this remembering,
but it feels more like being touched.
AFTERIMAGES
Memories do not fade—
they breathe.
They sit on the edge of the bed
while the room pretends to be empty,
touching nothing,
changing everything.
I hear them in ordinary sounds:
a door closing too gently,
a glass set down with care,
the pause before a name is spoken.
They arrive without warning,
not as ghosts
but as weather—
sudden, intimate, undeniable.
The past does not live behind me;
it stands beside me,
warm, alert, and painfully real.