When the Light Forgets Its Name

I met myself — in the mirror’s afterlife, half-ghost, half-breath, still learning the rhythm of being. The sun rose crooked, like a question mark, and every bird stuttered an unfinished answer. My mother’s laugh hums under my ribs — a code only blood remembers to speak. I’ve buried my years in envelopes of silence, yet the ink keeps waking, whispering rain. They say love never fades — but my heart keeps changing its signature, each beat a new confession. If the soul is a traveler, then I am its suitcase, carried by memories too stubborn to stay.