They will forget our names.
The world will swallow our stories
like shorelines pulled back by a thousand tides.
But once—
you and I
were here.

We touched time,
bare hands against the pulse of now,
fragile and burning,
like we thought forever was ours to command.

You laughed under stars
that died before we were born.
I held your face like it was prophecy.
We were dust in defiance,
trying to matter.

Centuries will not remember us.
Your letters will yellow,
my voice will vanish,
and the things we broke
will outlast the things we built.

But if somewhere,
a girl finds a scrap of our story—
a poem, a breath caught in ink—
and reads the way I loved you,
maybe,
for a moment,
we will exist again.

Not as we were.
But as a feeling.
As a flicker in the marrow of someone
who aches the way we did
at the edge of a millennium
we couldn’t hold.