perhaps the sun was only pretending.
every morning,
it rises with such conviction,
as though beginning again
were the easiest thing in the world.
it pours gold over the same streets,
the same windows,
the same empty corners,
and never once looks back.
i have always envied it.
the moon,
however,
has never learned
how to leave.
it keeps returning
to places it has already illuminated,
as though light itself
could become a form of longing.
perhaps that is why
the sea still answers it.
perhaps some things
are simply made
to remember.
i used to believe
forgetting was an act of the mind.
now i think
the mind only writes the story.
the body
keeps the archives.
it stores entire seasons
inside the smallest things.
a morning that feels heavier
for no visible reason,
a date you never meant to remember,
a sadness that arrives
hours before its own explanation.
perhaps grief
does not travel through memory at all.
perhaps
it travels the way moonlight does.
touching everything
without making a sound,
asking nothing of us
except to notice
that something
has quietly changed.
there are days
when the sun insists
this is ordinary.
and somehow,
every part of me agrees,
except my heartbeat.
it pauses
at invisible anniversaries.
it waits
for footsteps
that no longer belong to this life.
it mourns
traditions
my thoughts have already misplaced.
perhaps
that is what love leaves behind.
an orbit.
something inside us
that keeps circling
what is no longer there,
as faithfully
as the moon
returns to a sky
so if i seem quiet
on certain mornings,
do not ask
what i am remembering.
i may not know.
the mind
will always arrive
a little late.
it is the body
that reaches the date first.
and perhaps
that has always been
the truest definition of love.
not that it refuses to end,
but that,
even after it has,
some part of you
still rises with the sun,
and still returns
with the moon.
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1July 1, 2026 311
