In the quiet recesses of my mind,
A book of memories I find,
Bound in whispers, laced with dreams,
Filled with laughter, tears, and seams.
Each page a moment, etched in time,
A gentle rhythm, a silent rhyme,
Of faces loved and places seen,
Of all that was and might have been.
The scent of rain, the autumn’s breeze,
The golden hues of sunlit trees,
Soft echoes of a distant song,
That plays when nights grow still and long.
The hands that held, the words unsaid,
The paths we took, the tears we shed,
They linger here, within these lines,
A treasure trove of heart’s designs.
Old letters, worn, and photographs,
Of stolen glances, secret laughs,
Of moonlit walks and morning light,
Of stars that sparkled in the night.
But time, it flows, it never stays,
And gently turns these golden days,
To shadows cast and moments past,
To questions that we never asked.
Yet in this book, they live anew,
The joy, the pain, the old, the true,
For memories, though softly fade,
Are echoes that are gently laid.
And when the world feels far too vast,
I turn the pages of my past,
And find in every crease and tear,
The tender touch of love still there.
So let us write with every breath,
A story that defies all death,
For in this book of memories,
Our hearts are bound to endless seas.