remnants
remnants
There are remnants of joy, faint as perfume clinging to an empty room.
Remnants of fear, still trembling in the shadows where I left them.
There are remnants of bliss, fragile and glimmering like glass in the sun—
and remnants of hurt, sharp enough to draw blood if I touch them too long.
Remnants of contentment, warm as fading embers,
and remnants of disappointment, heavy as stones sinking in a river.
It is never one or the other.
It is always both—woven together, inseparable,
a constant push and pull that leaves me swaying.
The teetering. The unsteadiness. The edge.
So I gather the fragments carefully
and place them in a sealed envelope,
as though they might stop haunting me if kept out of sight.
Who knows when I will open it,
and whether I will be ready when I do—
to let each piece speak,
to feel the weight of them fully,
to decide if they were ever mine to begin with.