Erosion

Water finds the smallest flaw, a whisper that deepens to a shout, carving paths through stone and forgetting.

Each year the cliff edge moves an inch closer to the sea, each conversation loses a word to the current, and we stand watching, unable to hold the tide.

The river knows the shape of what it takes— smooth stones remember their jagged births, while we forget the precise color of our mother's eyes.

What survives is what gives way, the yielding stone outlasts the rigid one, and silence holds more than all our careful words ever could.