Amidst the folds of time, the shadows of memories stretch silently

Amidst the folds of time, the shadows of memories stretch silently, I dress myself in your echoes, garments of dreams and bygone desires. They don't fit me, but I wear them like a cloak of untold stories, slipping off my shoulders like a river of whispers lost in the night. You extended them to me as relics from a museum of wandering souls, polished, cracked, mirrors hiding fractures beneath the sheen of memory. What was there to do? Refuse this offering or pretend how I feel? I've learned to cradle them like shattered glass shards, broken. I place them gently in the sanctuary of my mind, deep and silent, where your laughter becomes an echo, and your joy a stolen song. A dream that had nothing left to give, a song that resounds empty, I try to sew your stories, but the threads tighten, tangle. Patterns that don't fit the geography of my life, a map that refuses foreign lines and unknown contours. And yet, within these memories hides a spell, a charm, fooling me into believing the past is a magical library. But borrowed does not mean owned, when memories fade away, what remains? Only a residue, a specter of a fleeting emotion. A dream of smoke that dissipates in the wind, leaving only faint echoes, tell me, if I return them to you, will you ever remember them as mine? Or will you forget you shared them with my heart hungry for stories? In the dance of consciousness, we lose our steps, and time, the unseen weaver, crafts its own stories, from which we can never escape, except in dreams, where shadows become strips of lost light.