i’ve forgotten about you, for the most part. but there are those small fleeting moments where you appear again, taking different forms.
in the clouds, in a phrase, in a specific name or word.
i keep asking myself why, but then i remember that forgetting doesn’t mean erasing.
it means tucking pieces of you away in places i don’t visit often,
only for you to surface when i least expect it.
maybe that’s what memory is,
not a clean slate but a mosaic of the things we carry,
even when we think we’ve let them go.