One minute you’re here, next minute you’re gone.
No warning, no reason—just absence.
A space where you were, still shaped like you,
but empty in ways I can’t explain.

Memories don’t ask permission.
They show up in the quiet,
in a song, in a scent,
in the way a stranger stands with their hands in their pockets.

Some days, they land like a whisper.
Other days, like a fist.
Neither stays for long,
but both leave a mark.

I don’t rewrite the past to make it easier.
I don’t pretend it was all good or all bad.
It was what it was, and it lingers,
sharp in some places, soft in others.

But I don’t hold it like I used to.
Not as a wound, not as a weight.
It’s just there, a part of the air I breathe.
And I forgive it all.