When the Clocks Forgot to Tick

A poem about the kind of memories that time can’t steal — the ones that live in the spaces between heartbeats.

There are hours

that never ended,

just folded themselves

into the corners of our memory.

I still see the dust

floating through that old room,

sunlight spilling like honey

on the floorboards.

We were younger,

careless with time,

spending minutes like they were infinite,

believing laughter

could last forever.

But clocks have a cruel way

of reminding us

that forever always ends quietly.

I’ve tried to return

to those summers—

the smell of rain before it fell,

the way your voice

made the air softer.

But memory is a fragile thing,

and sometimes it plays favorites.

The photographs remain,

but the warmth does not.

The moments stay still,

but we don’t.

Yet sometimes—

in the middle of an ordinary day—

a song,

a scent,

a sudden silence—

and I’m there again.

Not older,

not wiser,

just me,

exactly as I was

when the world felt endless.

Maybe that’s what time really does—

it doesn’t steal;

it hides,

waiting for us

to pause long enough

to remember.

And when we do,

the clocks forget to tick.

The world holds its breath.

And for one heartbeat,

we belong again

to the moments

that made us.