The Sound of Forgotten Things

The laughter that once filled the air,

Now just a whisper, faint and rare,

A voice that lingers, soft and low,

Like evening’s hush on melting snow.

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The scent of summers, warm and bright,

Dandelion gold, firefly light,

The taste of berries, ripe and sweet,

Still haunts the edges of my sleep.

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A promise made but left undone,

A thread unwound before the sun,

It drifts along the years, a sigh,

A half-remembered lullaby.

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Old letters tucked in drawers of dust,

Their ink now faded, lines unjust,

Yet in their creases, secrets cling—

The fragile sound of forgotten things.

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Oh, what we lose is never gone,

Just tucked where time moves gently on,

A murmur in the heart’s deep stream,

The echo of a half-dreamed dream.