A Poem About Memory, Ink, and the Heart of Creation
The ink remembered my hands,
long after the words forgot their way home.
Each line trembled — soft, unsure,
but alive with something real.
I wrote not to be read,
but to stay — to exist a little longer
between silence and sound,
between what I felt and what I could never say.Every word was a mirror,
showing not who I was, but who I was becoming.
The page was kind —
it waited, patient, for truth to spill like light.
My pen was not a tool;
it was a pulse, a small defiance
against forgetting.And when I stopped,
the ink still breathed — remembering me.Maybe that is what creation means —
not to be known, but to remain.
The ink does not remember the story,
only the warmth of my hands,
the quiet hours I gave it,
the courage it took to begin.
And in that remembering,
I became whole again.
