Do You Remember Me?

Do you remember me-

not as a fact,

not a line in the ledger of days,

but as the warmth that lingered

after the room went quiet,

when the world fell silent around us?

I ask it gently,

though the question carries weight.

It bends beneath the gravity

of moments we never named-

glances that outlived their words,

silence that learned our voices.

Do you remember me

before the world rearranged itself,

before time learned how to rush,

before memory began choosing

what to keep

and what to soften into blur?

I am not asking for perfection.

I am asking if I survived

the forgetting-

if I am more than a shadow

the mind sketches

and quietly erases.

Because memory is not storage.

It is an act of care.

It is repetition, return-

the quiet decision to carry something

even when it grows heavy.

Do you remember me

in the way a song still hears a voice

arance,

a faith that love, like memory, persists.

So I ask again,

not for an answer,fter the singer is gone?

In the way a place remembers footsteps

long after the road has changed?

If you do,

then I am still unfolding somewhere,

lingering in the spaces we left behind.

If you don’t,

then this question itself

is my way of staying-

a small defiance against disappear

but for the pause it leaves behind:

Do you remember me?