Memories
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The walls remember every version of her—the tears, the coffee, the restless nights, and the woman who kept figuring out what came next.
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Summer leaves the way some loves do: warm on the skin, already fading before you realize it was the last time.
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A family recipe becomes a memory of sticky fingers, sleepy smiles, and love passed down one bite at a time.
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Even the wind can carry back what memory tried to bury, touching old names, old places, and the ache of what once mattered.
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Every love story ends somehow, but endings do not erase the tenderness, damage, or meaning of what lived before them.
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Time does not fly so much as quietly steal bottles, teeth, first steps, and every version of the babies you thought you had longer to hold.
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Every trail becomes a kingdom when Theo reaches for leaves like stars and turns an ordinary afternoon into an adventure.
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Tiny hands know only that her arms are home, never seeing the battles she fought just to keep showing up.
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Some songs don’t stop belonging to you just because someone changes the dedication. This poem isn’t about ownership—it’s about memory, and how love can echo long after the music changes.
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Silence becomes its own language in the lingering glances, unfinished goodbyes, and distance that never teaches the heart to wander.
Between Bruises & Blooms 