Objects Hold Time

A button holds the shape of your hand— years later, I find it in a coat pocket, small as a confession.

Objects are time travelers wearing disguises. The coffee cup remembers mornings you'll never have again.

I collect what's left behind: the worn spine of a book, the silence where your voice lived.

These small things refuse to disappear. They insist on being found, on bearing witness to what we've forgotten.

Light passes through them unchanged, indifferent to the weight they carry, the stories pressed into their grain.