What We Become

Eight months vanished,
slipped through the
fingers of my time.

I counted the months
and found pieces
of myself missing.

And change rarely
arrives with thunder,
but, like shadows
moving with the sun,
we change in places
no mirrors can see.

And I outgrew things
I once prayed
would never leave me.

Some names slowly
became memories.
Some voices faded into
the architecture of silence.

People became seasons
in the landscape of my life.
Some hands were meant
to hold only for a while,
and I learned absence
can have a shape.

There are people I carry
without taking their names.

Life alters us in increments
too small to mourn,
and some wounds became
rooms I learned to live inside.

Life left fingerprints
on everything I thought
was permanent.

I stopped asking the river
to flow backwards.
I no longer chase
what has chosen
to become a memory.

Perhaps letting go
is another form of gratitude—
and learning to love things
without demanding they stay.

Now, I have made peace
with things I could not keep
and no longer negotiate
with time.

Perhaps change is not
what happens to us;
perhaps it is
what we are.

- Benzy
- August 09, 2026
- 1:17 am