It sits quietly
on the edge of memory-
a glance,
a breath shared between silences,
the warmth of a hand once held.

No photograph could hold it,
no words could preserve
the way time folded
in your presence,
like light around a flame.

We gathered moments
like seashells on a cold shore,
knowing the tide
would take them back
but hoping the imprint
would remain.

Even now,
in the hush of forgetting,
there is something
that does not vanish-
a shape in the air,
a thought
wearing your name.

This is my keepsake:
not a thing I can hold,
but a feeling
that never learned
how to leave.