A Second Sip of Time
I write because memory is a river that refuses to stay still
The moment passes once
A bird lifting from a fence
A goodbye folding itself into silence
A laugh scattering through the air
Like sunlight through shattered glass
But the page is a patient sea
Gathering every lost wave and returning to the shore
When I write, I become both traveller and map
Walking the road again
While tracing where my feet once bled
Words are lanterns hung in dark corridors of time
And each sentence relights a room I thought I had left behind
A memory enters me once as rain, cold and fleeting against my skin
But through writing, it returns as a garden
Blooming where the storm once stood
I write to taste life twice
First, as a fruit ripening on the branch
Sweet with surprise, then again as wine
Aged in the quiet cellar of reflection
For what is writing if not holding water in my hands
Long enough to see my own reflection?
A second sip, a second sunrise, a second chance to stand
Inside a vanished moment and call it home
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