The Things I Never Buried

I never buried certain names, They lingered like a scent in air. I whispered them through window panes And found them waiting everywhere. I never buried childhood roads— The ones I walked with bleeding knees. They live inside the softest odes And bloom like ghosts among the trees. I never buried what she said The night the silence broke our bed. Her voice still echoes in my head, Unwritten prayers the night once read. I never buried shoes I wore When running from a younger pain. They sit beside my closet door, Still damp from unforgotten rain. I never buried notes I wrote And never dared to send or burn. Each line a stone that tried to float, Each word a wish that wouldn’t learn. I never buried dreams that died— They wandered off but never left. They knock at dusk and slip inside, Polite reminders of my theft. I never buried those regrets That crept beneath my cleanest days. They hum in keys I won’t forget And follow me in quiet ways. I never buried parts of me That cracked but somehow chose to stay. They hold the light I couldn’t see And guide me when I lose my way. And though I’ve tried to dig and hide, The past is soil that doesn’t keep. The things I never said goodbye Still plant their roots when I can’t sleep.