She used to run

wild, laughing, unafraid

bare feet skimming the edge of the world.

She believed in things I have long abandoned:

magic, forever, the kindness of strangers.

I do not know when I lost her.

She was with me once,

when the sun was warm on my face,

when love was something I held

instead of something I mourned.

But time is a quiet thief,

and I let her slip away,

piece by piece,

until she was only a distant ache.

Yet she still knocks.

In the hush of forgotten moments,

in the spaces between regret and memory,

I hear her

a whisper in my soul,

a shadow in my tired hands.

She asks why I left her behind,

why I let the world make me small.

I have no answer.

Only the weight of all I have forgotten

the feel of rain on my skin,

the taste of dreams before they soured,

the courage to exist

without apology.

I want to tell her I am sorry.

That I did not mean to trade wonder for wisdom,

or freedom for fear.

That I did not mean to close the door.

But she still knocks.

And I am afraid to let her in.