what we carry

We see in pieces,
threads of color, shapes in shadow,
edges blurred by time and thought,
memories stitched in quiet tones,
soft as dust on an old canvas.

Each glance carries echoes,
stories tucked within corners,
a flicker, a scent, a shade of blue
that once wrapped around a moment,
pressed deep, like fabric worn thin.

We walk among our fragments,
faces, places, sounds we’ve left behind,
but they rise, unbidden, unbroken,
whispering, here, you loved.
Here, you lost. Here, you stood still.

And though we may look forward,
drawn to the horizon’s clean edge,
we walk with eyes turned inward,
haunted by colors that refuse to fade,
a constellation of selves, tangled and true.

To face these pieces is to face the self,
a tapestry woven from seeing and felt,
each thread a choice, a scar, a laugh,
and in the shapes we find a story,
our own, painted soft in every line.

So here we are, framed by perception,
by memories sparked in all we touch—
a mirror made from a thousand reflections,
showing us only who we are,
not by what we see, but by what we carry.