A journal lies dormant, its secrets sealed tight,

A keeper of whispers from mornings to nights.

Forgotten pages, Where my younger self would write,

My dreams and my fears beneath the soft Moonlight.

Clothing, outgrown and gently frayed,

Hangs limply, a reminder of times relentless flow.

In its threads, a former self is displayed,

A narrative of who we once were in every fold.

The dishes, chipped and aged with grace,

Still echo with laughter from a cherished place.

They tell tales of meals in a warm embrace,

Of happier times from bygone days.

The couch, with leather worn and holes burned deep,

A testament to wild, crazy nights with no sleep.

It holds the memories of passion, of a love so steep,

Precious moments in its folds, forever to keep.

For in each mundane artifact lies,

A piece of a soul, a slice of the past.

A reminder of time's swift demise,

And moments too precious to ever last.