© 2025 Irrelin. All rights reserved

I sit on the floor, where dust dances like ghosts,

Unfolding years from their cardboard crypts,

A ticket stub, its edges frayed by time,

From the first movie we saw on our first date—

I don't recall the story, just the touch of your arm against mine,

The warmth you shared, as steady as the screen's flicker and glow.

From an old pouch, coins tumble, echoes of my uncle's love,

Polished smooth by years, by my own touch,

Once I thought they were gold, tiny worlds in my palm,

Now they weigh heavy, a constellation of memories I can't let go.

The diary's pages crackle under my touch,

Ink smudged like dawn's first light,

She wrote of dreams, of standing firm against time,

And here I am, seeing myself in every line—

Not a stranger, but someone whose skin has seen the sun,

Whose eyes, though weathered, still hold their youthful light.

Grandma's porcelain wrapped in whispered goodbyes,

Soon to be another's cherished treasure,

But this box, I keep, filled with whispers of the past,

Time captured between yellowed sheets and tarnished coins,

A heartbeat from yesteryears, pulsing under my hands.

I shut the lid, returning it to the darkness,

A silent vow to revisit, to heed its call,

To sift through these relics once more, let memories live,

Because some moments, some echoes, never truly fade.