The things we leave behind
never stop calling.
They sit in the corners of our minds,
in the shadows of our days,
whispering in voices
we thought we’d forgotten.

Night becomes day,
day becomes night,
the world keeps spinning,
the seasons fold into each other,
colors blending,
fast-forwarding through time.
But still—
the echoes linger.
Your voice still hums
in the quiet moments,
a ghost that doesn’t know
it should move on.

Memories aren’t gentle,
they don’t fade
the way people say.
They haunt,
they hold on,
like a hand that refuses to let go.

And my skin—
it still remembers you,
still aches with the shape of you.
You were a comfort
I wrapped myself in,
and I still catch your scent
in the strangest places,
as if you’re everywhere
and nowhere at all.

We walk away,
but the things we leave behind
don’t.
They follow us,
calling out,
waiting for us
to turn around,
to look back,
to remember
who we were
when we still held them close.

© reddragonfly