A Stranger in Your Memory

I believed that when I closed my eyes,

the world would still remember me whole,

that familiar voices

would call my true name at dawn.

But I woke up in a desert without footprints,

where my reflection cast no shadow,

and your words felt distant—

as if you never truly heard me.

I don’t know the exact moment

when that bond broke,

but I felt the echo of a presence

that was no longer there,

and I shattered in that silent void.

No betrayal, no shouting—

just the cruel silence of forgetting,

the abandonment that doesn’t scream,

but burns deeper than a thousand farewells.

I wanted to give up,

to close every door

before the cold could enter,

but a voice,

deep inside my crumbling heart,

whispered: speak.

Speak, even if your voice trembles.

Speak, even if you don’t know where to start.

Speak, because beneath the rubble,

something still stirs.

And I spoke—

with clumsy courage,

naked truth,

and a love that remembers

that true bonds don’t vanish completely,

because maybe, just maybe,

that forgetting was a lapse of time,

a passing shadow,

a misunderstanding

that can be undone

by the light of brave conversation.

And if we dare to say it all,

perhaps we can return

to that sacred place

where we never stopped seeing each other.