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.

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sunset blue

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eight years later