Apr 30
I was cleaning my room, just another day,
Shuffling through time in a quiet ballet.
Letters and trinkets, a gift, a note,
Echoes of voices I no longer quote.
Their words, once warm, now hollow and still,
A whisper of friendships bent to my will.
Not sadness, not longing just a distant light,
A flicker that fades, yet once burned bright.
If I were to vanish, if I were to go,
Would these echoes matter? I already know.
They are just memories, dust in the air,
Drifting away, but I leave them there.
Still, I keep the gifts, though time has flown,
Not for their meaning, just for my own.
Shuffling through time in a quiet ballet.
Letters and trinkets, a gift, a note,
Echoes of voices I no longer quote.
Their words, once warm, now hollow and still,
A whisper of friendships bent to my will.
Not sadness, not longing just a distant light,
A flicker that fades, yet once burned bright.
If I were to vanish, if I were to go,
Would these echoes matter? I already know.
They are just memories, dust in the air,
Drifting away, but I leave them there.
Still, I keep the gifts, though time has flown,
Not for their meaning, just for my own.
I wrote this while cleaning my room and found a lot of small letters and gifts from my high school friends. Something happened between me and one of them that made me choose to cut ties and isolate myself, hoping to erase the memories. But even now, those things still hold meaning. They're just memories, but they’re proof that I was once loved by them, and by her. I miss those times, but it doesn't matter anymore.
