would it be easier for you
not to see me at all
would you like to forget me
even if not for the sake of moving on
just to make it easier
is it hard to have known me, loved me
and for everything to be different now?
yes

You are not the first to stand here,
shifting your weight from heel to toe,
listening for something that won’t answer.

This was someone’s altar once—
iron-veined and humming,
burning red under the weight of hands
that bent it to their will,
knuckles split and salted,
prayers exhaled through gritted teeth.

They worked like men who had no choice,
backs arched into the shape of tomorrow,
sleeves rolled past their elbows,
skin browned with the kind of sweat
that never washes off,
that seeps into the ground
like blood, like proof.

You were born too late to know them,
but their bones remember you.

You carry their names in pieces:
a slanted initial in your passport,
a jawline that sharpens the same way,
a craving for salt, for silence,
for anything that lingers—
but never long enough.

Time has worn them down
to a Sunday ghost,
a muttered grace before supper,
a name no one says right,
a thing you promise to remember
but never write down.

The rails are rusting,
but still they hold.
The ties are rotting,
but still they grip the earth.
The past is splintering,
but still it snags your skin.

You wonder if their hands ever ached
the way yours do,
or if the ache was different—
deeper, heavier,
rooted in something you can’t name.

You wonder if they knew
they were building a road
no one would walk back down.

And you wonder if they’d still have done it,
knowing they would fade into dust
long before you came looking,

long before you ever thought to ask,
before the rust reached the marrow,
before their prayers turned to silence,
before you let their stories slip
like sand through your teeth.

The words that you’ve forced upon me are sad
I’ll take them anyways but you should know
That you can’t take them back

An old man sat,
With another man young.
And up rose the old man from his chair,
In search of something found there.
From his pocket fell an old leather wallet,
And from it and older picture.
The young man picked them from the floor,
For the old man could bend no more.
And asked, the youth did,
Why, my elder, do you keep this ***** slip?
And responded the old man did,
For, my child, I remember not my beautiful wife anymore,
And there you hold her, and my child too.
The youth looked to the man, then to his wife,
Then returned the photograph.
Wise of you to keep her with you today.
Yes, my friend, it is

The broken promises

Pile up in the corner

Left behind

A feeling of guilt

Evaded

Because no one can remember

The oath once sworn

When lost to the power of time










The unfinished Ideas

Flowing freely like a river

Always starting

Quite plentiful

Until all that’s left

Is a trickle

For all things

Are forgotten with time




Words on a paper

Mark down the past

Yet it only takes

A single act

To go away forever

The shredded pieces

Fall before your eyes

Maybe one day

They say

You will find out why

The reason you are here

But that will have to wait for another time




When the act began

You found no way to stop

Backs turned

Eyes glared

Curses flew

And all towards you

Thrown to the side

They don’t remember you

Wishful thinking

That it was just at the wrong time










A word once spoken

A commitment lost

An excuse made

I was busy

It wasn’t my fault

Because no one can admit

That they forgot

That they never even cared

Knowing that one day you will forget

Because nothing escapes

The power of time

Let the paper remember everything I ought to forget.

Time
The present carries you along, the past
Unwinds behind, time’s arrow
Keeps the future up ahead.  
That’s how it’s always been, but now
The present slips away, leaves the future in the past,
  and disappears.
You’d follow but the present’s gone, moved on,
Left you behind,
In a future that’s already out of date,
But still enough to knock you down.

Change
Things change without you—
What seemed stable disappears,
Your horizon shrinks to nothing,
The future surrounds you,
And everything is stranger than you imagined.

Keeping up
You hesitate along the way,
Say that’s enough to this and that
But keep up with the rest,
Until you say to what remains
This far but no farther
This much but no more.
            
Memory        
When asked—
You find your reasons are in the past,
With gaps and pages missing,      
And certainties uncertain,
Planets in motion, pulled loose from their stars,
Leave you in silence.

There is a house
on the edge of the world,
where the wind forgets its name.
It does not welcome travelers;
it devours them,
pulling their stories
into the walls,
where they rattle like leaves
trapped in glass jars.

No one built this house.
It grew.
Its beams are the ribs
of something that never learned to die,
its windows open not to air
but to the sighs of lost seasons.
Even the sun’s gaze
glances off its roof,
afraid to linger.

The door isn’t locked,
but it resists touch—
a surface too smooth,
like skin stretched
over something restless beneath.
Still, you knock,
your knuckles trembling
as the sound folds into silence.

Inside, the rooms shift
when you look away.
A hallway grows longer
with each step,
its floorboards breathing softly,
as though the house is inhaling
your unease.
The walls ache with the weight
of unsaid things.

In the center of the house,
there is a room
with no corners,
its shape dissolving
as you try to name it.
Here, the wind gathers.
Not the wind you know—
not the playful breeze
or the feral howl—
but the discarded breaths
of all who came before you.

You see their faces in the wallpaper,
their mouths frozen mid-sentence,
their eyes half-lidded
like clocks stopped
between seconds.
They whisper your name,
though you have not spoken it.

You try to leave,
but the house will not permit it.
It swallows your footsteps,
its floors growing soft
as the wind begins to rise.
It presses into your chest,
pulling at the corners
of your voice,
stealing the words
before they can shape themselves.

And then you know.
The house eats the wind
because the wind carries memory,
and memory tastes of the living.
It feeds on the forgotten,
the untold,
the silences that stretch
between what was
and what will never be.

When you vanish,
as you must,
the house will grow another door,
another room to catch the wind.
Someone else will come.
They always do.

For the young,
the gut-wrenching ache
of love lost
Remembers.

The old witches know:
it forgets,
for memory is the reward—
a gift for having known
a twin in this world
(even if only for a short time).