My Fingers Tasted of Memory

My fingers tasted of memory—

salted with the past I never meant to keep,

soft with the echoes of moments

I thought I’d outgrown.

Sometimes it happened quietly,

like brushing dust off an old photograph

and feeling a whole decade breathe again.

Other times it struck like lightning—

a smell, a song, a forgotten goodbye

returning without warning,

warming the spaces I thought were cold.

I carried these tiny ghosts gently,

letting them rest on my palms

until they loosened their grip.

And in their leaving,

I learned that memory isn’t meant to haunt—

only to remind us

that we have lived,

and loved,

and changed.

Moral:

The past only clings to us long enough to teach us what still matters.

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Thank You For Reading...

Regards: Fazal Hadi