Old Picture
Late at night, when sleep refuses to come,
I begin to think of you.
My memory is a gallery
hung with fragile moments —
frames of laughter,
shadows of what once was.
But I am starting to realize
that your pictures are slowly fading,
their colors thinning with time.
It is as if a veil of dust
settles over your face,
soft and merciless,
blurring the lines I once knew by heart.
I am moving forward —
step by step —
and with every step
you grow more distant.
You are fading
while I am leaving the past behind.
I am forgetting your scent,
the curve of your smile,
the sound of your voice
when it said my name.
I am forgetting you.
And one day
you will remainonly a memory —
without a face,
without a voice,
just a space
where something used to be.
H