What Objects Remember

A photograph yellows at its edges, the faces fading first— how strange that light erases what light once captured.

In a drawer I find your letters, ink pressed into fiber, each word a small weight, each silence between lines a breath held through decades.

The cup you left behind sits unwashed. I trace the rim where your lips were, as if touch could live in ceramic, in glaze.

Time doesn't erase— it only makes us archaeological, careful diggers in our own lives, holding what remains like evidence of love.